


The Girl from Nowhere

by BitterTori



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: 1930s Slang, Cussing, F/M, Inter-Dimensional Shenanigans, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Not Comics Canon Compliant, Oh No He's Hot, but neither is the movie so, shows up to the fandom two years late with starbucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25796860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitterTori/pseuds/BitterTori
Summary: The aftereffects of an inter-dimensional crisis can be just as devastating as the collision itself; Maya James knows that as well as anyone. A professional Maintainer, it's her job to jump across dimensions, locate relics from other worlds, and get them back home before they can destabilize the boundaries and damage the multiverse.But this latest collision event has been a thorn in her side, and when she ends up taking a case in 1930's New York, the last thing she's expecting is to find that her new client is an infuriating gumshoe with a penchant for getting himself in trouble, or that he's stubbornly refusing to hand over whatever he took from that other world.Or that he's a brooding, nazi-punching, egg-cream-drinking vigilante.Or that he's ANOTHER Spider-Man.Or that he's...well, kinda charming.
Relationships: Peter Benjamin Parker/Original Female Character(s), Spider-Man Noir/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	1. Ill Wind

**Author's Note:**

> I promise, someday, I will get back to my other WIPs. But I've had this idea rattling around in my head ever since I first saw Spider-verse, and for some reason it decided to grab me by the shoulders and make me write it out immediately right now, so here we are. Amazing how a character with maybe 5 minutes of screentime really stuck with me like this, but Spider-Man "Piggyback rides for everyone" Noir is great and he deserves much more love. This story isn't complete and I'm not totally sure where it's going, but I live for that sweet, sweet feedback so I figured I'd go ahead and post what I've got, in the hopes that it'll spur me to keep this up.
> 
> I haven't read all of Noir's comics, but there's some wild stuff in there that I don't even know where to start with beyond "Peter goes to therapy", so pretty much everything from his dimension is based on my general Marvel knowledge and way too much time on Wikipedia. Maya is pretty strongly influenced by the character Saga from the game Dreamfall Chapters, so if you've played it she might look a little familiar.
> 
> I think that's all I have to say for now. Let me know what you think, and enjoy!

"You gotta be _kidding me_ ," she spat, refusing to take the screen from their hand. " _Another_ cartoon?"

"It's just a cartoon _relic_ , Maya. The 'verse itself is postmodern, realistic; it's fine."

"Nuh-uh. No way. You keep saying 'relic', which means you don't even know what this thing is. I just had a cartoon two relics ago, I am _not_ getting my atoms rearranged again. Give me something else."

"You don't get to _choose_ , James," Domiviic growled—she hadn't seen them this riled up in a long, long time. And they were using her family name, too? _Damn_. "That collision event has been hard on all of us, you don't get special treatment just because you're..."

"Because I'm _what?_ " she snapped, rising to her feet. "An _Aut?_ Yeah, you're right, it hasn't gotten me any 'special treatment'. What it _has_ gotten me is _twice_ as many cases as the next fastest specialist, _and_ I have you breathing down my neck about getting my reports in on time, the _entire_ time I'm here. I know this has been hard—I know it better than anyone else, because I'm doing _more retrievals_ than anyone else! This isn't even a formal complaint, I'm just letting you know: I am getting close to the bottom of my barrel, here, so when I say I can't do another cartoon this soon, _I mean it_."

Domiviic stared. She fought to stifle the urge to apologize, the sharp spike of guilt that lanced through her at their expression. They'd been her case manager—supervisor and mentor and friend, all rolled into one—for as long as she could remember, and she'd _never_ spoken to them like that. But she'd meant every word. She was swimming in reports, she'd had jet lag for what felt like weeks, and her shoulder was starting to ache again because she hadn't had time to visit the clinic since long before some asshole got their hands on a quantum supercollider. That cartoon relic might be nothing, but—at least physically—she really didn't think she could take that chance.

Domiviic squared their shoulders, slid the screen back into the stack in their hands, and started flipping through the others. " _Fine_ ," they huffed—still angry, but at least they were listening to her. "I can't afford to give you an easy one right now, but you can have this one instead. No cartoons involved."

"I never asked for _easy._ " Maya took the offered screen, eyes skimming through the report. "Tch. Who's doing these assessments? We don't know what this relic is, either?"

"It's an object, most likely inanimate, from a postmodern 'verse. I suspect it's from the level that hosted the collision. But...yeah," they sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of their nose. "The new recruits have been assigned to recon, collating the assessments, so we're missing a lot of data from—"

" _Hold up_ ," she cut them off, swiping to the next page. "It's in a _monochrome?_ "

"I'm sorry, Maya," Domi said, and it sounded genuine. "I know you hate those, but it's the best I have for you now. Unless you wanna reconsider the cartoon?"

Groaning, she sank back down into her chair and ran a hand through her hair. "No, no, I'll take it. _Fuck_ , though. Is this..? Does that really say _1934?_ "

"It does. Make sure you stop by the armory, get yourself a vest, just in case." They turned and started to head back toward their office, but called over their shoulder, "Oh, and Maya?"

"Yeah?"

They grinned. "Make sure it's black!"

It was a stupid gesture, and didn't really mean much of anything around here, but it still felt good to flip them off.

* * *

Maya jumped into the world for less than a second before jumping back out again, checking the plotter on her wrist for the image it'd taken in that half-second.

As usual, her instincts had been good. There wasn't anyone else in the alleyway she'd jumped to, and the windows to the factory it was tucked behind were boarded up. There was still the possibility that someone was looking out from the flophouse on the other side, but she didn't see any faces peering down, and chances were good that no one inside could make any real trouble for her anyway. She nodded to herself, pulling up the map to the apartment where the client was supposed to live, making sure she had her route memorized; no way could she consult her wristwatch for a holographic, interactive layout of Manhattan out in the middle of the street in 1934 _._

It was just a precaution, anyway. Never hurt to double-check, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd been lost in any way that mattered. So long as the intel was good, she'd be golden.

* * *

 _That was the problem_ , she thought, reappearing in the alleyway a split second after she'd last left it. _Was_ the intel any good? The recruits she'd met so far showed a lot of promise, but they didn't have the experience or the freedom for the sort of thorough investigation she was accustomed to. A good recon mission could last for weeks, but that was time they just couldn't afford right now, and baby Maintainers would never be allowed that amount of unsupervised travel.

With a sigh, Maya turned her collar up against the chill, and made her way out of the alley. She'd hated the time she spent in Reconnaissance, had put in her transfer request for Recovery as soon as possible, and never looked back. Maybe, if she hadn't literally been _born_ to this, she might have been able to see the appeal; but she lacked both the patience and the interest to spend her life as a glorified dimensional tourist, just sitting around and people-watching and waiting for something interesting to happen. Of the millions of worlds she could travel to, she would never be able to jump to the only two that mattered.

So she'd found a niche that better served her interests. She got to _be_ something interesting, reclaiming artifacts and relics that didn't belong and returning them to their rightful home before they could do any real damage to the multiverse. It was good work and she was good at it, though admittedly there were only so many of Domi's "you're here to save the worlds" speeches a person could endure before even that emotional reward felt meaningless.

If nothing else, at least it got her out of the house—though after this latest collision event, that felt much more curse than blessing. She might have to treat herself to a little staycation after this job, give herself some time to relax, her shoulder some time to heal. She could always jump back to work before they really missed her, or Domi would eventually come knocking. She could really use the rest.

Especially since she had a feeling about this case. Not a good one.

Not bad, necessarily, but...unsettling. True, she didn't prefer worlds like this, disliking the disorientation the reduced visible spectrum caused and the ways she had to disguise herself to go unnoticed. But this felt bigger than that.

Maybe it was the strange energy out here in the streets, the bustle of grayscale people moving about, working or shopping or desperate for diversion. Even for New York, even for this era, everyone seemed...tense. Furtive glances, shuffling feet, the few conversations she could almost overhear held in hushed whispers. It made her feel on edge, in a way she rarely did while traveling.

Still, she had a job to do. Whatever was upsetting the delicate equilibrium of Midtown Manhattan, it had nothing to do with her. All she had to do was find the relic stolen from another dimension and return it. She could always jump away if things got too hot, try back a different day.

It wouldn’t be ideal. She didn’t know what the relic was, what kind of danger it posed to this place and these people. Every moment that passed was another step closer to the possibility of it destabilizing this entire dimension.

So Maya kept her head down and hurried her steps toward the target, trying to shake off the crowd's ambient unease.

At least the weather was favorable for wearing the gloves and scarf that masked her skin color, this iteration of New York refusing to release its grip on the last dregs of winter. She'd almost enjoyed retrieving an outfit from the quartermaster, pleased by the fleece-collared flight jacket and heavy knickerbockers she'd discovered. She was short enough to pass for a teenaged boy, maybe a little older. The loose pants hid her hips well, and with the oversized ivy cap pulled low to hide her eyes and short hair, she looked every bit the bedraggled street kid in his big brother’s hand-me-downs, walking the streets in search of work. An effective disguise that kept her from drawing any degree of interest from passersby, especially at a time like this.

But the driving wind and sleet made her wish she'd worn something more substantial beneath her armored vest than the impact bra that kept her chest flat. She hadn’t wanted to feel too bulky; the report had stated the relic was probably in the client’s apartment, so she’d had to anticipate the likelihood of a quick escape, the possible need for a full range of motion. The last thing she needed was the client coming home with a civilian or two to find her rooting through their things. She’d leapt out of windows more than once to keep from being seen making a jump, and those cases had come with much better intel than this one. If her gut feeling was anything to go by (and it rarely steered her wrong), she’d end up running from _something_ on this job, and would be glad for fewer layers when she did.

Still, she was shivering and grateful when she finally slid between the doors of the apartment complex. A five-spot pressed into the doorman’s hand was all it took to clear her way to the stairwell without question. The client lived on the top floor, 16 stories up, and she cursed that fact with every flight she took.

Still, these were no penthouse suites. Not tenements, either, thank the void; the client had a private room, and there was no one in the hallway to watch her retrieve the multi from her pocket and swiftly pick the lock. She hesitated at the click, pressing her ear to the door to listen for any sound of movement inside, but there was nothing.

So she let herself in, waiting for a minute with her back against the door for her eyes to adjust to both the gloom and lack of color. There were windows along the far wall, looking out to a fire escape and the street below; but the overcast sky was a dreary gray, even for this dimension, and the light they let in was hardly substantial.

But it was enough for her to check the readings from her plotter. A little dimensional warping, but no sign of any serious destabilization. It could be nothing more than the lingering ripples of the collision event. Either the relic was harmless, or it was lying dormant, or it wasn't being kept here.

Regardless, it didn't belong in this dimension. There was nothing to do but look for it.

The studio apartment was nothing too special, but a decent size for this time period. The windowed wall was exposed brick, which wouldn’t be considered chic for several more decades, the others papered in a pale plaid pattern that left her grateful she couldn’t see it in color. There was a wrought-iron bed in the corner, half-obscured by a rack of clothes; a sagging couch and a worn armchair around a scuffed coffee table; a mismatched dining set by the window, one of the two chairs doing double-duty as a laundry hamper; a gas stove and a small Frigidaire and a sink. The report supposed the client was some sort of investigator, which explained the filing cabinets along one wall, the heavy wooden desk with a tube radio and a stack of folders and notebooks, a folding Kodak resting like a paperweight on top.

The place was haphazard, but not terribly messy. Whoever lived here didn't spend much time on tidying up or decor, but who was she to judge?

Domiviic had said "probably inanimate," but she scanned the ground for any food or water dishes anyway, even muttered a, " _Pspspspsps_..." for good measure. It was always her first try for unknown relics, certainly never hurt to check; no matter the dimension, no matter the species, people always love taking in strays.

But she heard nothing in response; no tinkle of a little bell, no padding of little feet. Frowning, she sidled over to the narrow bookshelf, overflowing with heavy tomes and pulp magazines and loose pages of obscure text that seemed torn out of library books. She scanned the titles for anything anachronistic, checked the covers and pages for any colors that seemed out of place. Books weren’t particularly common relics, but they could be _powerful_ ones.

Still, no dice.

A peek into the cramped (but at least private) bathroom proved that it could be used as a darkroom in a pinch; there were trays stacked beneath the sink, a clothesline and pins stretching across the far wall, and the exposed bulb overhead appeared to have been switched out for a safelight. The jars of developing solutions arranged above shelves of towels in the cabinet were the cleanest, neatest things she'd seen so far. At least that meant this client wasn't reckless. But still, nothing seemed unusual or out of place.

With an annoyed huff, she turned back to the main room. “If I were a private eye who’d gotten my hands on an interdimensional relic,” she murmured, tapping a finger against her cheek, “where would I hide it?”

She stepped over to the desk, crouching down for the bottom drawer. It was locked, but not for long, her multitool picking it clean in a matter of seconds. There were more folders inside, labeled with ridiculous names like “Vulture” and “Goblin”, most of them full to bursting with newspaper clippings and police reports, autopsy records and crime scene photos—horrible, disgusting, tragic things, even muted as they were by the lack of color.

But the folder on top was thinner than the rest, and unlabeled.

Maya grabbed it and stood, thumbing through the pages. There were articles from the _Daily Bugle_ about some tycoon named Wilson Fisk, a few blurry snapshots of a large person in a crisp white suit, a map of the harbor covered in circles and x’s and handwritten notes.

She was peering at this last one, thinking the harbor would be a great place to hide a larger relic and trying to decipher the scrawled black writing on the gray-and-black image, when the papers fluttered in her hand.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She snapped the folder closed, snapped her eyes up.

A person was _there_ , one foot in the apartment, the other perched carefully on the sill of the now-open window. Almost definitely the client, they were tall and broad, intimidating in black clothes and boots, an enormous trench coat, a fedora resting at an angle on their head...and a black mask that covered their face, except for the big, round goggles where their eyes should be.

They weren’t moving, just staring at her.

With a steadying breath, she slowly set the folder down, stepping away from behind the desk.

They moved when she did, stepping fully into the apartment, letting the window (and her possible exit) close behind them.

She opened her hands, showing herself to be unarmed. “Easy, there. This isn’t what it looks like.”

In a flash, they lifted an arm, pointing one gloved hand at her. Something _shot_ out of their wrist—a net of thin white rope that _clung_ to her.

" _Eugh_ , you gotta be _kidding me_ ," Maya groaned, looking down at herself, now cocooned in glistening white webbing, arms trapped at her sides. The client seemed to hesitate, outstretched hand lowering in surprise. Disgust probably wasn't the usual reaction they got to this shit. "What, are they making you fuckers in a _factory_ somewhere?"

With another curse, she hung her head, and jumped.


	2. Ten Cents a Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the rest of the first chapter, but that would've made it just absurdly long, so I split it into two parts. The next chapter (or two, it's also getting unwieldy) is almost complete, though there are a couple of scenes giving me trouble. It shouldn't take much longer to write, though after that I'll probably be updating this with far less regularity, whenever the mood strikes.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think, and enjoy!

Home was as she'd left it, quiet and peaceful, and for a second she considered getting herself out of this webbing and taking a nice, hot shower and a good, long nap before finishing this job. But that would mean she couldn't bitch about it to her boss, and this was _so_ going on record somewhere.

She jumped again.

* * *

"Are you fucking kidding me? A _spider-person?!_ "

"I'm in the middle of something, James," Domiviic grumbled, not even turning to look at her.

" _Hi, Kori_ ," she chirped to the surprised-looking bird-woman sitting on the other side of Domi's desk. She hadn't counted on an audience, but wasn't opposed to it, either. " _Your plumage is looking great today_."

"James..."

"Look at me! My client's a _spider-person!_ Why the _hell_ was that not in my report?!"

" _That's rough, Maya_ ," Kori cooed sympathetically. " _I had one a few jobs ago, but at least I had warning. Where are they all coming from?_ "

" _Don't you two start_ ," Domi hooted, finally lifting their gaze from the reports on their desk. "Maya, get your ass to the armory and _deal with it_. You can complain all you want when the job's done. _And when I'm not in a meeting_."

"Fine," she spat. Her fingers were starting to tingle from the lack of circulation, anyway. " _See you around, Kori._ "

" _See ya, Maya!_ "

* * *

She jumped—back home, then to the armory to get lazered out of the hardening webbing and sign the forms for on-the-job combat usage. Then home, where she gazed longingly at her bed before jumping back to Earth-90214, 1934ce, just a few seconds and several feet from where she'd left.

The client whirled when she reappeared, trying to shoot her with another web. But she had special dispensation now; she held out a hand, displaced the web to the void. "Look, I'm sorry I called you a fucker—"

If the spider-client was surprised at their web disappearing, they didn't let it stop 'em for long. They dropped and spun, kicking her legs out from under her faster than she could prepare for.

* * *

She jumped mid-air, falling back heavily on her own couch at home. For a moment, she just lay there, trying to take a few calming breaths.

They didn't much help.

* * *

Another jump; she was really getting her mileage on this one. If only she could bill for this. If only she actually got _paid_.

"Look, I'm not here to hurt you, alright?"

In the split-second it took them to raise it to her face, she jumped—more out of instinct than anything else.

* * *

"Since when do they carry _guns?!_ " she cried out to her empty home, and the void surrounding it.

* * *

"Can we just skip to the part where you stop attacking me? This is getting old."

" _How do you keep doing that?_ " Spider-client growled, their voice lower and deeper than she'd expected.

She raised her hands and lifted her chin to meet what she assumed were their eyes behind those goggles (and _please_ let there only be one set of eyes back there), trying not to let her instincts overreact to the pistol once again pointed at her face, and took a chance, speaking slowly. "I'm not from this dimension."

They didn't lower the gun, but they also didn't shoot her, and that seemed close enough to a win. With their free hand, they reached out and snatched the hat off her head, tossing it away and revealing her face to this monochrome world.

She could almost swear those goggle lenses got bigger in surprise.

"You're... _colorful_."

Small mercies they hadn't called her "colored"—even under these circumstances, she would've _had_ to hurt them, and then this case that was already shaping up to be a mountain of paperwork would develop into an entire _range_.

Still, she had to admit, it _was_ a little funny to hear herself described that way. With her brown skin, brown eyes, and brown hair, "color _ful_ " wasn't usually accurate. Under normal conditions, most of the cases she got were selected specifically because her "ethnic ambiguity" made it easy to blend in. It was just another reason she preferred to steer clear of monochromes.

Still, that pistol was lowering so she sure as hell wasn't about to correct them. "I am. And you've seen people like me before. Maybe even a whole world. You took something from that world. I'm just here to take it back."

They put the gun away, into a holster hidden somewhere beneath that giant trench coat. "Don't know what you're talkin' about."

"It doesn't belong here," she said calmly, refusing to even play that game. "Best case scenario, it dissolves from atmospheric changes between its world and this one, and you lose it anyhow. Might as well just give it to me. _Worst_ case scenario? It destabilizes this whole dimension, ruptures a few boundaries, and catalyzes another collision event trying to bring its home dimension _here_. Hell, it might even be the source of the _last_ collision! So you'd be better off giving it to me."

Through her whole speech, they'd turned away and started flipping through the file she'd abandoned and the drawer she'd left open, checking to make sure nothing had been stolen; but at this last bit, their head snapped up. "You don't know what caused the last one?"

"Someone does," she assured them. "I'm just a retrieval specialist. But if you give me what you took, I can make sure it's not responsible for the _next one_."

They shook their head. "So you don't...know what happened to Miles? If he's okay?"

She frowned, cocking her head to the side. "Who's Miles?"

For a long moment, they said nothing, just staring at her as she stared back. Then, suddenly, they dropped the folder and slammed the drawer shut and crossed the room in a few quick strides, scooping her cap off the floor and tossing it to her. "C'mon."

" _What?_ " she asked. But she _was_ following them toward the door, sweeping her hair back and tugging the cap down low. "Where are we going?"

"I ain’t got whatever you’re lookin' for," they said shortly. "But I'm not gonna let you stand there and gab while you try to scope out where you think it might be hiding."

She hadn't known they'd realized; the surprise and embarrassment made her cheeks warm, and she tugged her scarf up higher to make extra sure no one caught sight of her blushing face. " _Fine_ , but where are we _going?_ "

They didn't answer, just opened the door and hurried along the hall, down the stairs, and out the back door to the dark and dreary street.

She followed along, down multiple city blocks, hurrying her steps to keep up with their long strides, even when they turned down into a winding warren of narrow alleyways, always ready to jump the second they tried something.

But they didn't, just pulled up at a door next to some dumpsters, and swung it open to reveal...a soda shop.

"Hey, I can't go in there!" she hissed, grabbing their arm. It was one thing to be seen by a client who'd already had a run-in with people of (literal) color, another thing entirely to waltz into a food service joint full of folks who'd never seen any hue beyond grayscale.

"It's fine," they assured, glancing inside then back down at her. "They're...discrete."

She muttered a string of curses under her breath, tugging her hat low and her scarf high and keeping her face averted as she followed them inside.

The place wasn't _packed_ full, but there were still more monochromatic people milling about than she felt comfortable with, even with her client taking the two seats at the end of the bar, closest to the door they'd come in. There were young couples on dates, older men scowling at their newspapers, one woman sitting low in a booth with her head in her hands and her makeup doing a poor job of hiding that shiner. Maya saw the client take note of her, as the aging soda jerk sidled down toward their end of the bar.

"Hey there, Spider-Man," they called. "The usual?"

"Two of 'em," her client replied, holding out two fingers.

The jerk nodded, and turned to grab two tall, frosted glasses.

" _Spider-Man?_ " she asked, when they were out of earshot.

He turned and looked at her for a lingering moment, and she wished like hell she could see what expression was happening under that mask. Then he held out a gloved hand to her, and softly said, "Peter."

She huffed a laugh, and shook his hand. "Maya."

" _Maya_ ," he repeated, nodding, and _damn_ if her name didn't sound amazing coming from that gravelly voice. Before she could say something stupid and make a fool of herself, he released her hand and reached out to catch the two drinks sliding down the bar to them. He set one in front of her, turned so his back faced the rest of the shop, and tugged his mask up to his nose to take a drink.

_Oh no._

She tried not to stare—at that square jaw, those pouty lips, the stubble and the scars, the _gray skin_... Most of all, she tried desperately not to wonder what was under the _rest_ of that mask, if just this much could make her feel...like _this_.

Her first drink was taken just to give herself a distraction—and _wow_. The flavor filled her mouth, smooth chocolate and tangy seltzer fizzing across her taste buds. If there was one real, true perk to this job, it had to be the food. She made a soft sound of delight, going back in for another taste.

He—Spider-Man— _Peter—_ was smirking at her. "That your first egg cream?"

She shook her head. "My first one _this good_ ," she corrected.

He nodded sagely, lazily stirring the straw in his own glass. "Figured you could use a pick-me-up, all that..." he trailed off, making a sort of _popping_ gesture with his fingers, " _teleporting_ you were doing."

Instinctively, she ducked her head and glanced around; but there was jazz on the juke, and they were far enough away from the other patrons that they surely couldn't be overheard. Hell, even the jerk was on the phone, not paying them the least attention. "I call it jumping," she corrected, keeping her voice low all the same. "And, thanks."

He shrugged, and took a drink. "Don't thank me. You broke into my place; you're buying."

Despite herself, and the ridiculousness of the situation and this whole damn job, she snorted a laugh. " _Fine_. You're a cheap date, Spider-Man."

"Never said I wasn't," he murmured, and she just couldn't help but notice the way that one scar tugged at his upper lip when he smiled like that.

She just couldn't.

"I'm not the first Spider-Man you've met." It seemed as much an observation as a question.

Maya frowned, trying to remember what she'd said back at that apartment, if she'd mentioned other spider-people in his presence; but it was already such a blur, she couldn't quite be sure. "No," she drawled, dragging the word out thoughtfully. "I don't think you're even the first one named Peter, but I'm not usually on a first-name basis with clients."

Dramatically, he draped a hand over his heart. "I'm _touched_ ," he gasped.

"In the head, maybe."

"Well, I'm talkin' to a dame who's a color that don't exist, so...probably, yeah.”

She shrugged, took another sip of her drink. Seeing as he was feeling chatty, she decided to try her luck. “What is it you stole from that other dimension, huh?”

“I didn’t ‘steal’ anything,” he said, punctuating the statement with a loud, obnoxious slurp from his straw.

“Alright. What’d you _take_ from that other dimension?”

“ _Nothin'_ ,” he said, shaking his head and holding up two fingers. “And that was _two_ questions.”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing?” At that, he raised a third finger, and she fought back a laugh as she grabbed his hand and shoved it away. “No, no, put that down! Those first two were just rephrases of the same question, I’m still at two.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “Still my turn. How d’you do that? The... _jumping_ thing.”

She shrugged, took another drink. “I just...do. Everyone who does it, does it different. There are a lotta worlds out there. Some people have magic, some use technology... Hell, I even knew a guy once, he could only do it while dreaming, and only so long as he stayed asleep, back wherever his real body was. Me, I've got a...place. A hub, a tether, whatever you wanna call it. I can jump there from anywhere, and _from there_ , I can jump anywhere.”

“So you’re...magic?”

“I’m...an anomaly,” she clarified. “The Maintainers, the folks I work for, they call us Auts—Autonomous Dimensional Travelers, if you wanna get official. No ulterior magic, no need for any tech, just...the ability to move or send things between dimensions at will. I only know of a handful of us, and I’ve never met any of the others. And _that_ was your two questions.”

He closed his mouth around the question he seemed about to ask, sighed, but nodded and gestured for her to continue.

She tapped a finger against the rim of her glass, pretending to be thinking. "Who's Miles?" she asked again, more carefully this time.

Still, his shoulders stiffened at the name, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

She sighed, and added, "I know you have no reason to trust me. But if someone's in trouble, I might be able to help."

He turned his head to the side, refusing to meet her eye. His hands balled into fists. She waited.

"He's...just a kid," he finally admitted, voice tight. "But he's family. _Another Spider-Man_. It was his world, his...responsibility. He got us all home, and he must'a stopped Kingpin's collider ‘cause my world's still here and all, but I don't know if he’s... If something... He's just a _kid_."

Maya reached out, rested a hand on his arm, tried again to meet his eye when he turned back to her. "I can't promise the answer you want," she told him softly. "But I promise I'll look for him."

"I don't have whatever you came here for," he said, his voice lower, almost menacing. "And even if I did, I wouldn't give it up for information."

"I never asked you to. Besides, I can't. It's _your_ turn."

Honestly, she'd thought that was a pretty good one. But he didn't laugh, didn't respond, just sat there with his face angled down, apparently staring at her hand on his arm. She didn't move it. He didn't pull away.

"What's..?" he started, cleared his throat, then tried again. "What's your favorite color?"

Void help her, she almost answered, " _Gray_." She closed her eyes and shook her head, forcing herself to stop staring at his mouth.

"Can't pick just one," she said instead. "I know that's a cop-out, but... I like a sunset. Any dimension, any place, any era, any number of suns or atmospheric makeup... They're all my favorite."

He was looking at her again, nodded slowly when she finished speaking. She sat still, waiting for him to _notice_ , to _say something_...

"Your turn."

Maya blinked in surprise, licked her lips. After a moment's hesitation, she slid her hand further up his arm, leaning in close enough to hear the hitch in his chest, to feel the heat of his breath against her cheek as she asked, “D’you wanna get out of here, big guy?”

He licked his lips, his free hand moving to rest against the dip of her waist. “You think that's a good idea?”

“I do,” she murmured, reaching up to tug his mask down over the rest of his face, “since everyone else but the soda jerk just left.”

It was really remarkable, how expressive he could be with just body language and that mask, the way he reared back in such obvious surprise and whirled around, seeing the now-empty shop and the lone attendant standing by the door, nervously wringing their hands on a towel. “ _Gerry?_ ”

“Sorry, Spider-Man,” they called. “I hope you make it out, but that finder’s fee’s nothin’ to sneeze at!”

Maya barely heard the words, she and Peter too busy bolting out the back door. There were heavy footsteps ringing down the alley on either side; so when Peter grabbed her around the waist and said, “Hold onto me!” she did just as she was told.

He raised an arm and shot out a web and launched them into the sky, just as the shooting began.


	3. Puttin' on the Ritz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this ridiculous, overwrought, self-indulgent nonsense? Probably.
> 
> Am I gonna post it anyway? Oh yes, with glee.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Your friends are _real_ discrete," the dame— _Maya_ —grumbled, brushing glass and dust off her clothes.

Peter ignored her, peering through another window (one they _hadn't_ crashed through) to the street below. He didn't wanna think about the fact that he'd just got made at his favorite soda joint...

The bounty on his head was a constant, if ephemeral, threat, ever-changing in the amount and in the hands offering it up like a penance for their own sins. But things hadn't been hot like this for a while, now.

In the months since he got yanked into another dimension, he'd been keeping a lower profile. Took a while to get used to being back home, to being in a body that wasn't going to betray him at any moment and without warning. But lately he'd been getting back to it again, shaking up his city to see what kinda vermin fell out. If this many goons were this willing to come out in this kinda weather just for the chance to plug him, he must'a finally shaken something the right way.

Still... No one poured 'em like Gerry.

"You should get outta here," he told the dame, watching the swarm of hired guns surging down the street toward the building they were hiding out in. This wasn't a good neighborhood for swinging, the buildings too short and too cramped together to let him put any real distance between himself and the schmucks trying to kill him. No great options for him here, but at least he could see her off safe.

"You gonna hand over that relic?"

 _Not for nothin'._ A relic, she called it, and that was just what it was. It was all he had, the only real thing, the solid, tangible reminder that it had all been real and his friends were really out there somewhere—that he wasn't the only one. He wouldn't be giving it up, not to her, not to anyone. "I don't _have_ any relic," he lied. She scoffed.

"Then I guess you're stuck with me, big guy," she said, joining him at the window.

He could think of worse things.

He knew he wasn't smooth, not with dames, not with anyone. But she'd been...easy to talk to, somehow. They shouldn't have anything in common, but she seemed a level enough gal. Funny, too—quick-tongued, though her accent was annoyingly unplaceable, even for New York. Didn't seem ruffled about the Spider thing; didn't seem the type to ruffle easy. And while he wouldn't tell her what had happened, wouldn't tell her what he'd got, it'd been nice to talk to someone who at least knew about other worlds, even if she didn't seem all that impressed by 'em.

She had this way about her—a confidence, a certainty, like she knew just where her place was in this or any universe, and that she was right there in it. And there was...a sadness about her, too. He'd seen her through the window of his apartment, fingering through his worst files, back when he thought she was just some kid come to rob him. She'd been disgusted by the photos, but not surprised by 'em. It was why he hadn't stormed in with his .45, why he'd tried to sneak in and take 'em down easy. A kid like that had no business being unmoved by sights like those—a dame, neither. Her eyes had seen worse things, though, that much was certain.

And those _eyes_... Brown, he was pretty sure, and so richly hued, so many different shades swirling together, and they'd glittered in the light of the soda shop like a sky full up with stars.

"Why's all of Manhattan trying to kill you?" she asked, calm as anything, like she was just asking about the weather.

"It's not _all_ of Manhattan," he said, forcing his attention back to the matter at hand. "This is just Midtown."

"Right. Why does _Midtown_ wanna kill you?"

He risked another glance outside. The men below were surrounding the building, some pointing up at the empty window frame where he and Maya had busted through to escape the hail of bullets.

But, yeah, he recognized a few of those faces down there—a few of those Lugers, anyhow. Definitely Heinrich's. "I might'a shot their boss. A few times."

She shot him with a look, those glittering eyes narrowed. " _Why?_ "

"He's a Nazi."

"Oh. You kill him?"

"Nah."

"Well," she patted his arm. "Better luck next time."

Despite himself, he grinned under the mask.

"C'mon, waiting around's no good. Let's get outta here."

He followed her over to the double doors on the far side of the room. By the lack of furniture and the layer of dust covering the dance floor, he was pretty sure he knew where they were. That meant this place would be empty; but if the noises from downstairs were anything to go by, it wouldn’t stay that way for long. "You got a plan?"

"Me? Nah, I'm just waiting for something bright and colorful to fall outta that coat of yours, so I can grab the relic and make tracks. Why, you got one?"

"I'm workin' on it.”

"That's encouraging." She tried the door handles; they turned, but the doors themselves refused to budge, even when she leaned into it. She sighed—then _disappeared_.

Faster than he could really react, she was back, appearing suddenly on his other side. “Wha— Don’t _do_ that!”

"It's boarded up on the other side," she said, ignoring him. "We'll have to find another way around."

Peter shook his head, stepped forward, and put his shoulder to the door. With the crackle of splintering wood and a sharp _snap_ , the door gave way.

Maya had removed her cap and was stuffing it into the pocket of her jacket, but she eyed him, lips parted and eyebrows raised, obviously impressed. "Okay, then. You're one of the strong ones, huh?"

"I do okay," he said, propping the door open and gesturing for her to step through.

She did so, shoes crunching on the slivers of wood that now littered the carpet, and looked around the cavernous, empty space. "Where _are_ we?"

"The Arcadia," he answered, striding past her to the half-wall that served as a railing, overlooking the ground floor of the massive atrium. As he'd suspected, Heinrich's goons were right outside, hacking away at the cast iron front doors with crowbars and axes. "Used to be a hotel. Hear it was a real swanky place last century, but business ain't exactly booming anymore."

"I guess not." She'd rewound her scarf around her head, tucking in the edges, so it covered her hair and most of her face, obscuring the strange, impossible, distracting color of her skin. Her eyes were only barely visible peeking out between the edges of the fabric. "Should be some decent places to hide, though. Think we can wait 'em out?"

"Not if everything's boarded up like that," he said, gesturing back to the extremely obvious wooden carnage his opening the door had left all over the carpet. "They'll be through that door soon, hear us breaking into anything."

As if on cue, a great _clang_ echoed suddenly through the space, followed by groaning metal and the hoots of men as the front doors were wrenched open. He and Maya both dropped down, ducking behind the railing.

She put a hand on his arm, dropping her voice to a soft whisper. "How's that plan coming along, then?"

"If we can get to the roof," he whispered back, pointing upward, "I think I can swing us away."

"Great. How do we get up there?"

He slid the hat from his head and crept up, peeking over the railing to get his bearings. At least twenty well-armed men were pouring through the door, filling the lobby. Either Heinrich had even deeper pockets than he'd realized, or Spider-Man had pissed off enough'a these brawlers so bad they'd agreed to kill him for cheap.

He dropped back down and pointed with his thumb, sliding the hat back on his head. "Stairs're on the other side."

"Of _course_ they are," she sighed.

“You could pop over, meet me there.”

" _Spread out!_ " Peter knew that voice, booming from the doorway—Hugo Braun, Heinrich's right-hand man. " _Shoot anything that moves! I want the Spider's head!_ "

"I think I'll stick with you, actually," Maya said softly.

He nodded, looking around, considering their other options. They didn't have much time before somebody made it up here to the third floor, spotted the busted door and the two of them crouched here together, and started shooting. "Alright. You afraid of heights?"

"I'm not keen on falling from 'em."

"I won't drop ya."

"I'm awful glad to hear it."

He took her hand and led her, still crouching, further along to the building's facade, where they could stand in the shadows and not yet be seen. This wasn't gonna be big on dignity. "I'm gonna need both hands free. Can you keep a hold on me?"

She followed his gaze, up and over, and swore. Her left hand rose to rub her right shoulder. "Probably. Stronger than I look, but I got a bad shoulder."

"I'll try to make it quick."

“Wonderful.” She took a step back and placed her hands on her hips. "How d’you want me?"

He didn't answer that, feeling immensely grateful for his mask so she couldn't see his expression or his flushed cheeks as he pulled her in close and moved her arms around his neck. "Promise me," he said, hands still on her wrists, waiting for the brown eyes beneath that scarf to look up, searching for his own, "that if things get hot, you'll get outta here."

She was a little shorter than he'd realized, her face pressing against his chest as she said, "I promise."

She gave a little gasp when he leapt up and started scaling the wall, hoisting herself up higher and wrapping her legs around his waist. Fortunately, the lobby below was swarming with men who'd come to kill him, so he had something else to focus on than how snugly she fit against him.

He climbed, staying to the shadows, moving as quickly as he dared. Didn't wanna attract the attention of any searching eyes, but he also didn't wanna hurt her any more than he had to. She didn't make a sound as they went; but when they reached the top he had to push off, leap from the wall, catch the ceiling with his hands to pull them horizontal, and he _felt_ more than heard the breath hitch in her chest during that moment of hang time.

The feeling of her weight settling along his torso, her legs still tight around his waist, was... _distracting_ , to say the least. But he did his best not to think about it, not to notice, even as her arms loosened their hold on his neck, and she lifted her head from his chest to look around. He had to keep moving, keep picking their way carefully across the dusty, frescoed aluminum tiles, being sure not to pull anything loose. This place must'a been a wonder when it was open, but—as grateful as he was for anything else to think about than the situation he was in—he didn't have time to admire the architecture right now. They just needed to get across this ceiling without being seen; then he could web them back down to the ground nice and slow, and they could make a break for the stairs, get to the roof, and home free.

 _Then_ he could fret about the dish who’d come to rob him.

"...This is cozy," she breathed, just barely loud enough for him to hear, even with her mouth so close to his ear. Definitely not loud enough to be heard down below.

"Don't get too comfortable," he said just as softly, as much to himself as her. "How's the shoulder?"

"Let me worry about that. You just focus on staying stuck to the ceiling, please."

"I got it covered. I ain't gonna drop you."

"For some reason, the more you say that, the less reassured it makes me."

"You always this chatty?"

"Only when I'm nervous," she admitted. "How’re you keeping that hat on your head?"

"I'm crawling on the ceiling right now, and _that's_ what you have questions about?"

"Oh, trust me, I have many more questions. Want me to go through the list?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Well— _stop_." The word came out as less than a breath, but an urgent one. At the same time, his Spider-Sense buzzed insistently against his skull.

Peter froze, waited. Maya’s arms tightened their hold on him.

A voice drifted up from below, "What... What is _that?_ "

Time for Plan B, then.

Her whole body tensed as he released the tiles and let them drop, just long enough to _thwip_ out a web and use the momentum to swing them across and to the other side, moving fast, just barely fast enough. A clatter of bullets whizzed past, together with angry shouts from below.

He was running the second his feet hit the carpet, Maya just a step behind him, both tearing for the stairwell. 

“ _Third floor!_ ” he heard Schmidt roar. “ _Get them!_ ”

He burst hard through the door to the stairs, bowling the hard boy on the other side off his feet and back into his friends, giving him just enough time to grab the dame by the waist and shoot another web, launching them up a couple more stories before the goons could get those convincers turned their way.

Still, it wasn’t a long-term solution. The railing around the stairs was made up of just rows of iron bars—looked swanky, but didn’t offer any cover, and there were a lot more footsteps in this stairwell now, more bullets flying their way. The next landing they came to, he grabbed the girl and pulled her through the door.

“ _C’mon_ ,” he hissed, and she kept her hand in his and followed him down the hallway, past plenty of matching, numbered, boarded-up doors. He hurtled around a corner as the stairwell door banged open again behind them.

A _dead end_.

But there was a window there, and this high up the former owners hadn’t bothered to board it. That could work, they could still make it, could scale the building from the outside or swing to another, it could _work_. He shattered the glass with an elbow, stuck his head out—

And _yanked_ it back in as a hail of bullets peppered the outside wall. He’d forgotten all about the mooks outside, apparently enough of them still surrounding the block to make that escape impossible. He whirled, hoping, maybe, there was still time to break into one of the rooms, to find another way around, a place to hide like she’d suggested...

Braun came strolling around the corner, flanked by a handful’a biscuit-boxers, a grin on his face and a Tommy gun in his hands. “Well, well. We’ve been looking _all_ over for you, Spidey. Who’s your friend, there?”

Peter was already moving, putting himself solidly in front of Maya. “ _You promised,_ ” he reminded her, voice low.

“I don’t think so,” the fink croaked, his phony grin sliding away. “Step aside, Spider-boy, let me see your little...protégé? Ah, yes. And let’s raise those hands, too.”

Peter had little choice but to obey, especially now that Braun had turned the barrel of that Chicago typewriter on Maya, a sneer on his ugly mug.

" _Beat it, kid._ " Peter urged. He might not make it outta this one, but he sure as shit wasn't gonna watch her get plugged, too.

"No-no-no," Braun nickered, waving that Tommy back and forth between the two of 'em before settling back on her. "No one is going _anywhere_. Not until the Spider's dead, and anyone foolish enough to befriend him."

Maya was staring at him, and Peter almost wished she could see his face, see how desperate he was for her to get gone.

...And then, he saw her wink.

She took a step forward, toward the goons, her hands raising up a little higher in front of her. "You sure about that, big boy?" she asked, voice pitched a little higher than normal, sultry enough to rival any Hollywood bombshell.

Peter saw Braun frown, saw the boys behind him falter at the sound of a dame's voice comin' outta that scarf. He could _hear_ the smile on her face.

She waggled her fingers and crooned, " _Nothin' up my sleeves..._ "

The second she disappeared, he moved, shooting two webs to the wall behind Braun and propelling himself forward, the heels of both boots connecting with the Nazi's jaw before he even had a chance to turn that convincer away from where Maya had been.

He ducked and spun, webbing one’a Braun’s brawlers to the wall, elbowing another right in the putz. The third got an uppercut to the jaw, and Peter could hear and feel his teeth shattering beneath the blow. _Good_ , he’d be on an all-applesauce diet for months after this. The fourth was making a break for it, so he webbed his ankles together, watching him fall face-first into the carpet, then dragged him back over and hoisted him up on the wall beside his friend.

As for Braun...

Peter turned, found the bastard splayed out on the carpet, unconscious. The Tommy was nowhere to be seen; maybe one of the webbed-up boys had snagged it? But he wasn’t about to pull ‘em down to find out. It didn’t matter, anyhow. He webbed Braun, kicking him to flip ‘im over, making sure he was well and truly covered before dragging him down the hall to the broken-out window, and hauling him out feet-first.

Maybe his friends below’d catch him. Maybe not.

He turned and hurried back toward the stairwell, scaling the walls and taking the ceiling, just in case any more of Heinrich’s men came spilling through that door.

Maya didn’t reappear. That was a good thing, it’d be easier to get outta here with just himself to worry about. Still, he had a feeling he’d be seeing her again.

He...hoped so, anyhow.

He wouldn’t be handing over his relic anytime soon, but her company had been...interesting, to say the least. And he was grateful for the distraction she’d made, for the opening it gave him, the chance to take Braun by surprise. It’d been a neat trick, that was sure.

But he didn’t have time to be thinking about her right now. His Spider-Sense was buzzing hard, a sure sign that the rest of this gang was waiting for him, just on the other side of the stairwell door.

He gripped the lintel tight, keeping his body parallel to the floor, holding steady for the span of a few breaths. This wasn’t gonna be pretty, but he had to get to that roof, and there was only one way to get there.

He swung down, kicked the door off its hinges, shoving it and the men foolish enough to stand behind it over the handrail and down 5, 6 stories. The shooting began instantly, but he arced his way over their heads and slung another web, trying to pull himself up and outta their range.

But Braun’s hadn’t been the _only_ submachine gun. The line of fire from the second street sweeper cut through his web, sending him crashing down hard to the landing below.

He didn’t even have time to feel it, rolling to his feet and heading back up the stairs to slug his way through the mob. Twenty, thirty Lugers he could handle— _probably_ —but he had to get that Tommy outta commission.

It was a _lotta_ goons, though. For every one he managed to toss over the railing, three more were on top of him, swinging those meaty fists around. He hadn’t taken a beating like this in... Well, not since he’d got bit.

His legs got kicked out from under him, his arms got wrenched behind, and the next thing he knew he was on his knees, penned in and staring down a barrel.

The man behind it grinned. His face wasn’t familiar, but Peter caught the glint of light off the brass buzzer pinned to his chest. “Say goodnight, Spider-Man.”

“Now _that’s_ cheating.”

Maya reappeared beside the crooked cop, knocking the barrel up—his grip must’ve loosened in shock, ‘cause she pulled it right out of his hands. Just like his web before, the gun _disappeared_ in her hands. She ducked the pig’s confused, artless swing and popped back up, clocking him in the jaw.

“ _What are you doing here?_ ” Peter hissed, once again using the distraction she’d caused, throwing the mooks off him and whirling to shatter one man’s nose.

“You’re _welcome!_ ” she called, over the grunts and swears and the sounds of leather against flesh, the sick thudding of a man half-rolling, half-falling down the stairs.

The press of bodies shoved them back-to-back in the center of it all. He turned his head to look down at her, met those fantastic brown eyes, and nodded. “Thanks.”

She nodded in return.

He grabbed her waist, and she held on tight as he shot out a web and, once again, pulled them several stories higher. They were almost there, he could see the door to the roof from here.

But there was also a kid—an _actual_ kid, maybe sixteen at the most, scrawny and trembling but using both hands to point an old revolver between the two of them. He must’a been trying to flee the chaos below, but wound up somewhere he clearly didn’t wanna be.

Peter wondered again just how much his head must be worth right now. Probably enough to feed this kid’s family for a year, maybe two—put a roof over their heads, at the very least.

Maya had her hands raised again, was taking a slow and careful step forward on the landing. “Take it easy, sweetheart,” she said, her voice calm and comforting, apparently having just done the same calculations he had. “We’re not gonna hurt you, okay? Just put the gun down.”

The kid swallowed hard, eyes wide, as surprised to hear a gal’s voice as all the others had been. “I-I-I-I-I w-w-won’t...” he tried, voice shaking as much as the rest of him.

There were footsteps coming, pounding up the stairs. Peter’s Spider-Sense was a gnawing ache in his skull. “We gotta _go_ ,” he told Maya.

Before she could respond, the door behind her slammed open. She whirled, already throwing a punch, but the bruiser who came barrelling out grabbed her fist in one meaty hand and wrenched her arm around—her _right_ arm—her _bad_ shoulder.

Maya howled in pain, scrabbling with her left hand to get free. Peter made to launch himself at the bastard, but the crowd from below had reached them, and he only got one good hit in before he had to pivot and force back the rest. This must be the crew that first brought the front door down, because instead of pistols they wielded crowbars and axes, and he had his work cut out for him dodging their swings. Especially with the noise behind him, Maya’s cursing and the big man’s grunting and the knowledge that he just had to let her fend for herself right now, knowing at any time the worst could happen—

The gunshot split the air.

Peter whirled, blood running cold at the shock of crimson.

The big mook was staring, eyes wide, Colt drooping from his fingers. “What’s..? What’s wrong with..?”

He didn’t get to finish his thought. Peter grabbed the man and heaved, hurtling him into the rest of the gangsters, sending them all tumbling back down the stairs as Maya...fell to the ground. _Bleeding_.

He was on his knees at her side in an instant, tearing the scarf off her head and pressing the bunched fabric against the wound at her hip. Her blood was _so_ red, dizzyingly so, soaking into the scarf too quickly, already coating her gloves and now his. “C’mon, doll,” he whispered, grabbing her shaky hand and pressing it to the fabric, helping her put pressure on it. “You gotta get outta here, okay? Gotta get safe. Can you jump?”

Those big brown eyes focused on him for a moment, before squeezing tight. She gritted her teeth, obviously trying. “ _Hurts_ ,” she told him, her voice somewhere between a gasp and a whine.

“Okay,” he grunted, looking around, trying to come up with a plan. He was _not_ gonna let her bleed to death, not here in this place, not because of _him_. “I'm gonna get you outta here, okay? It’s gonna hurt to move, but it’ll help, yeah?”

She gritted her teeth again, but nodded her head.

"Okay. I got ya, doll. Just stay with me."

She groaned in pain as he pulled her up, lifting her onto his back, her arm and chin hanging over either shoulder.

"You just keep the pressure on, I got ya. Got a friend that'll patch you up," he hoped— _please_ , let Felicia be willing to see him, just this once. "You just gotta stay with me, okay?"

Her little whine of pain was all the answer he got, but it was somethin'. There were still voices below, getting closer, the goons regrouping and resuming the chase. He had no choice now but to go up.

He hooked his arms under her knees and took the stairs as quickly as he dared, doing his damnedest not to jostle her too bad but unwilling to waste time. They had to get outta here, get to the Black Cat, and _fast_.

A cry of alarm echoed through the stairwell, panicked voices echoing up to him.

"What _is_ that?"

"Smells like... _blood_!"

" _Why does it look like that?!_ "

Their first sight'a color, and it had to be Maya's blood pooled on the landing of this grimy stairwell. He was grateful for their distraction, but knew it couldn't last.

"It don't _matter_ what it looks like! The boss wants the Spider-Man dead, so _find him!_ "

They had to get outta here.

The door to the roof was deadbolted, but he was outta time and options. He braced the girl, leaned back, and kicked the door hard as he could.

The clang of metal beneath his boot got the guns’ attention, but it didn't matter, they just had to get _out_. Another kick, and the lock snapped clean through, and he heaved their way through the door, and—

A dozen—no, _twenty_ goons, black suits, blacker gun barrels whirled their way. The ones downstairs were closing in, no buildings high or close enough for him to swing them out from the middle of the roof like this, and even if he tried it he’d be one _big_ target with this girl on his back.

 _This_ girl...the one he’d already seen do amazing things, things a person shouldn’t be able to do. He gripped her arm.

“Hey, doll,” he breathed, feeling her groan in response. “Any good ideas?”

Her head lolled to the side, he assumed so she could take in their absolute shit surroundings. “No...” she drawled, her voice thin, weak. _Please don’t die on my back_. “But I got a bad one.”

He felt a buzz of dread across all his senses, heard the cock of weapons behind them on the stairs. “I’ll take it.”

“Fuck,” she breathed. “Close your eyes.”

“ _What?_ ” Was she _nuts?_

Shit, maybe she was. She had come back for him, hadn’t she? Could’a gotten away, safe and sound, left him to his fate. Wouldn’t’a got _plugged_ if she had. He wouldn’t’ve had an easy go of it, not with that other Tommy, and especially not with these clowns hiding out up here on the roof, and who knew how many still down on the street below. But at least he’d’ve had a chance to try it without her bleedin’ out all over his trench. But...she _had_ come back. For him.

Her arm tightened across his chest with what he hoped wasn’t the last of her strength. Her voice sounded right beside his ear as she said, “ _Trust me_.”

G-d help him, he did.


	4. Out of Nowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday, I'll figure out how to write shorter chapters. Today isn't that day.
> 
> Enjoy!

It wasn’t like before. Wasn’t even like the glitching. His atoms weren’t _rejecting_ his existence, it was like they were being... Like _he_ was being turned inside-out, upside-down, backwards and leftwards and frontwards and then, _suddenly,_ upright and on his feet again.

He gagged, staggered, felt Maya slide off him but couldn’t stop to check on her while he was doubled-over with his hands on his knees, trying desperately to keep from puking in his mask.

He’d done that before, did _not_ want a repeat.

After a moment, as his organs finally settled back where they belonged, he lifted his head—then winced at the riot of color. Not half so glaring as the shock of futuristic Time’s Square, thank fuck, but still not a welcome surprise with his head still spinnin' like it was.

Peter turned, let his eyes rest on the comfortably dark-toned lump that was Maya, crumpled on the carpet behind him. Her torso was mostly upright—her chest was heaving, hands shaking as she struggled with the buttons of her flight jacket.

The sight of her at least jump-started his thick skull, and he hurried to his knees before her, brushing her hands aside as he undid the rest of the blood-smeared clasps. She sagged against him, hissing as he peeled the fabric away.

The kevlar under her jacket surprised him; the puddle of blood seeping out from under it, though, made it easy to focus. The plug had got her right below the bottom hem of that armored vest, a lucky shot of the bad variety. He took her shoulders in his hands, made her look at him. “What do I do?”

She raised an unsteady hand to point. “Bathroom. Left. Black bag...under the sink.” He nodded and pivoted to go running in the direction she pointed, but she caught his wrist, fingers digging in with a desperate kind'a strength. “ _Don’t_...look out the windows,” she groaned.

“I won’t,” he assured, and she let him go. Shit, he hadn’t noticed there _were_ windows to look out of, that they were even indoors in the first place. His Spider-Sense hadn’t alerted him to any danger beyond the gal bleedin' out on the floor behind him, and for right now that felt like enough of a mess to deal with.

They _were_ inside, in...some kind'a sitting room, maybe? He vaulted over a low table and couch to sprint down the hallway she’d pointed at, skidded to a stop and lurched through the door on the left. Bathroom. Sink. Cabinet. Black bag... At least he knew that color. He scooped up the bag and hurried back outta there, skidded to another stop in the other room.

The gal’d managed to haul herself up on the couch and shimmy partway out of her pants, lying sprawled there across the cushions with her vest pulled open, revealing an awful lot of dark skin that seemed much too pale (even in this colorful place), a tight black brassiere and tiny little bloomers, and a shimmering smear of blood, already drying to a crust around the edges. Her eyes were screwed shut, chest rising shallow and quick.

He took a steadying breath and hurried to her side, pulling the bag open. There wasn’t hardly anything inside that he recognized.

“Pipe,” she murmured, holding out an unsteady hand, thumb and forefinger outstretched.

Peter reached inside the bag for what he assumed she must mean, a narrow tube of what looked like a half-foot of thin copper piping, but heavy and solid. When he put it in her hand, she took it with a weak smile, and pressed one end of the gizmo into her outer thigh. Moments later, she managed a deep breath, and her head fell back with relief.

“ _Fuck,_ ” she breathed, letting the pipe fall to the floor. “Thank you. Can you...help me get these pants off?”

He hesitated; she sounded a little better, but was still bleeding an awful lot. She started squirming, though, trying to pull her legs free, so he swallowed hard and did as she asked, tugging off her shoes and the heavy wool knicks and tossing them aside. Her breaths had evened out to somethin' close to regular, and she'd slid her arms free of the vest, tugged off her gloves, and laid there in just her knee-high socks and underthings. And blood.

“Thanks,” she said again, voice a little steadier, and nodded back to the bag. “Okay. I need the sham-torch, the... It’s bent like this?” She held her hand up again, fingers bent at almost a right angle. Peter pulled out the tool he thought she might mean, and she took it with another small smile. “Great. Okay. Now, there should be a blue... Er, it’s sort of a flat, square patch, should be a couple in the side pocket? Yeah, we just need one. And the spray bottle, too.”

He grabbed both, grateful he didn’t have to explain that he kind'a knew what blue was. Now was _not_ a good time for that conversation. “These?”

She lowered her head in a kind of nod, apparently too weary to lift it again. “Yeah. Okay. So I’m gonna deal with the bullet, here. It’s not gonna be pretty, but when I say go, you spray me down with that bottle. Just hold the nozzle down, aim for the blood, keep going until all that’s on me evaporates, then slap that patch over the wound. Okay?”

Peter looked down at the objects in his hand, then back at her. “I think... Yeah. Okay.”

“Great.” She looked down at herself, hovering the bent edge of the “sham-torch” over the opening of her wound, then hesitated with a grimace. “ _Fuck_ , I hate bullets,” she growled, and pressed her thumb down.

At first, it didn’t seem like much of anything. Thin lines of light emerged from the end of the torch, mapping a grid across her skin that slowly narrowed and twisted until it lined up over the opening of her bullet wound. The light flashed once, twice, three times, then narrowed down into a single beam.

 _That_ was when she started gasping, cursing, gritting her teeth. He threw an arm across her legs to keep her from kicking him and the table. Her free hand dug into the cushion beneath her so tight he heard the fabric rip and tear. Smoke began to curl up from out of the wound, like she was _burning up_ on the _inside_. Even through his mask, he caught a whiff of it, the wretched scent of blood and heated metal.

Through it all, she kept her hips still, kept her hand and the torch steady above the wound. And when the light faded and she coughed, “ _Go_ ,” it took him a moment to pick his jaw up off the floor and remember what she’d told him to do.

Maya winced when the spray touched her skin; but it cleared the blood away in seconds, as close to immediate as anything he could imagine, leaving a sheer mist glittering across her heaving abdomen. There must’a been some sort of adhesive in the mist, because as soon as he touched the patch down it stuck to her, covering the wound and the skin around it completely.

In the silence that followed, he just sat there, staring up at her, one arm still flung across her legs, his other hand still resting atop the blue patch. It took her a minute to settle her breathing again, to lift her head and open her eyes and stare back at him.

“I...” she started, then had to stop and clear her throat. “I’m sorry you had to see all that. Really appreciate the help, though.”

Peter looked from her face, to the patch, and back again, rocking back onto his heels with a sigh. “What...do we do now?”

“Now?” She lifted a hand to run her index finger along one edge of the patch where it met her skin—she didn’t seem to notice that her pinkie and ring finger rested on his, but it was all his mind could seem to focus on. “Now, I wait until this baby’s run its course, and I can be a person again. Time doesn’t really... _work_ , here, but it shouldn’t feel like more than a couple hours. I can take you back home after that.”

"Wait—a couple _hours?_ For a _bullet wound?_ " Even he wasn't that fast.

She flashed a crooked smile. "It'd be faster if I went to the clinic. But there's still a chance my boss doesn't know I brought you back here, and I'd prefer to keep it that way."

He blinked and looked around, taking in the room around him for the first time.

It seemed a cozy sort’a place. Reminded him of Aunt May’s—not _his_ Aunt May’s, but the other Peter’s, that warm, soft, colorful place. Not so neat, though; the wood furniture was mismatched, the bookshelves full up with paperbacks, used coffee mugs nestled together on the low table, a stack of blankets piled haphazardly on an armchair. The clothes he'd taken off her weren’t the only ones scattered on the thick, soft carpet. Theatre posters with titles he couldn’t even read let alone recognize hung alongside frames full of pressed flowers and painted landscapes. Thick curtains hung over what he assumed to be the forewarned windows, and overhead, glowing globes of light hung from the ceiling, gently pulsing in a way that seemed almost...alive.

He knew he wasn’t any good at telling what colors looked any good with others, but he had a suspicion none of them here were really supposed to be together like this. Still, it made it all feel lived-in, like with enough time to look at everything he could know this gal’s whole life story.

“This is...your place?”

“Home sweet home,” she sighed, her tone sarcastic. Her hand moved to rest on top of his, on purpose this time. “I’m sorry I jumped you out of your universe. I know that’s not a pleasant trip for folks like you, but we seemed a little out of options.”

“Well,” he drawled, “you did warn me it was a _bad_ idea.”

Her full lips curled slowly, a Cheshire cat grin. “I _tried_ , at least.”

“You saved my life,” he reminded her.

Her grin faded into something less amused, something...softer. “Then it was worth it,” she said.

He pulled his hand out from under hers. “ _Why?_ Why’d you come back? You don’t know me. You could’a just...left me to die, then jumped back and stole whatever it is you think I got that I ain’t s’posed to have. Why get shot for me?”

She used both hands to haul herself up into more of a sitting position on the couch. When she moved, he could see the dark stain of blood still soaking into the cushion beneath her. _Why?_

"...I fucking hate Nazis," she finally said with a shrug.

At his scoff, she chuckled softly and shook her head. "Well, I do. Besides, I'd probably sound like a real whacko, saying some nonsense about having a 'good feeling' about you, or whatever this is. I've worked thousands of these cases—and that's a low estimate, mind—and I've never pulled a client outta their universe before. Been in tighter spots than that, but I'd _never_ have brought any of 'em back here."

Peter shook his head. "Guess I'm a whacko too, then. I _did_ trust you, y'know? Thought for sure we were both about to die, but I closed my eyes and everythin'."

"I know," she said teasingly, Cheshire grin making a comeback. "If you hadn't, you'd have tossed your cookies all over my nice carpet."

He turned, casting a pointed look at the pool of blood drying on that “nice carpet”. “ _Yeah_. You got somethin’ I can clean that up with?”

“Don’t even think about it.” With a groan, she leaned forward, one hand going to the strange bandage on her hip, the other scooping up the spray bottle he must’ve dropped to the floor. “You already patched me back together, I’m not gonna make you tidy up, too. Just sit back, relax. You hungry?”

He didn’t answer, just watched as she leaned sideways and started spraying the carpet, humming softly as she did so. Just like before, her blood disappeared almost instantly in the spray of mist...

At least until it fizzled out with a hiss. She frowned, gave the can a little shake, pressed the nozzle down again, got a little bit more out before it gave up the ghost. “Aw, come _on_ ,” she whined, glaring at the label on the bottle. After a moment, she just scoffed and shook her head, tossing it to the other end of the couch. “Man, I have _got_ to stop getting shot at.”

Peter rose to his feet, stretching his arms up above his head, relieving the cramp settling in between his shoulder blades. “Yeah. Maybe if you stopped breaking into peoples’ apartments?”

She redirected her glare up at him. “Maybe if the people whose apartments I’m breaking into don’t have half of East Manhattan tryin'a kill 'em?”

“Manhattan’s a big place. That couldn’t’a been more than a quarter.” He put his hands in his pockets, glancing around the room. Where was the kitchen? “C’mon, you got any vinegar or somethin’?”

“Nuh-uh, no way. I got an old bot around here somewhere, he’ll take care of it. You’re _not_ cleaning anything.”

She started to heave herself up off the couch, and he moved to keep her from falling back to it again. She was still wearing almost nothing, but didn’t shove him away when he slung an arm around her middle and murmured, “Take it easy, kid.”

Instead, she smirked and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, big guy, I’m not running any marathons. Shit, how are _you?_ Did you get hit anywhere? They were beating on you pretty good.” She started tugging at his clothes, brow creased with worry, looking for any sign of injury.

He batted her hands away. “ _Relax_ , I’m fine. Only blood on me is yours.”

He wondered if she always cursed like this, or if it was just the pain and blood loss.

"Damn. _Fuck_. I’m sorry, I should’ve asked sooner. You could’ve been seriously wounded and I wasted all that Surrex on the carpet. But I can get that coat of yours cleaned up at least, while we’re stuck here.”

He looked down at his coat, a little doubtfully. It sure wouldn’t be the first time a piece of his costume got ruined by blood, though with hers being the color it was, it'd be harder to hide the stains. “It’s...dry-clean only,” he informed her.

She laughed—a little weakly, but it was...a nice laugh. “That’s fine, sugar. C’mon.”

She moved slow, and winced every other step, but she let him keep that arm around her as they made their way down another hallway into a small, dim room. There was somethin’ like a tall cabinet to the right, its walls and doors made of glass, a variety of sweaters and pants hanging inside, not a dress in sight. She swung the door open, reaching for an empty hanger, and turned to him with one eyebrow raised expectantly.

With a sigh, he shrugged out of his trench and handed it over, catching her arm when she swayed under its weight.

“What you got in these pockets, _bricks?_ ” she gasped, maneuvering the hanger into the sleeves. When she tried to lift it to hang in the cabinet, she winced with a sharp hiss.

He took it from her hands and hung it up, turning back to find her leaning against the low counter along the opposite wall, eyes screwed shut as she placed a hand over that patch. Dressed as she was, he could see her chest rising and falling, her right thigh quivering with the effort of keeping her weight off the other hip. She tossed her head back, sweeping the hair out of her eyes and off her sweat-beaded forehead, and caught him staring. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“You should lie down.”

“In a minute,” she muttered, releasing her hip and reaching out toward him. She took his arm and turned him a little, peering at his back with a frown before patting the shoulder of his vest. “There’s blood on this, too. I really made a mess of you, huh?”

“Not your fault,” he assured her, undoing the buttons and slipping it off. One glance at the back confirmed that it was also likely ruined, though it didn't seem to have seeped through. No need to take off his turtleneck, at least. Still, he felt his shoulders sag—the coat could be replaced, but he only had so many of these bulletproof vests. If only her blood was a _normal_ color... Hopefully this laundry contraption of hers worked, but if not, he needed to find a new supplier and soon.

“ _Damn_ ,” she groaned.

Peter sighed. “Think your gizmo can clean it, too?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.”

He looked up, surprised at her dazed tone of voice, and froze. Was she...staring at his chest? If so, that was fine—hell, he’d been staring at hers plenty, but... Well, either she _was_ staring, or she was _really_ feeling that blood loss right now. Maybe both.

He hurried to hang the vest as well, then grabbed the closest sweater—a long, sturdy cardigan in a hue that didn’t hurt his eyes, and tossed it to her.

She caught it with a frown, looking down at herself...and then letting out another stream of curses as she turned away from him and quickly covered herself.

"Fuck. Shit, god _damn_ _it_ ," she whispered, wrapping her arms tight across her chest, holding the sweater closed. Her eyes met his for a second, then darted away, her cheeks darkening with another color—not quite red, he didn't think. Pink, maybe. Pretty. "I... _Sorry_. I didn't realize I was still..."

He hadn't meant to make her feel embarrassed—hell, she had a _hell_ of a body, obviously strong but still soft all over, with that cute belly, those wide hips and thick thighs. She was a looker, no doubt about it.

But he'd made her feel vulnerable, here in her _place_ , where she'd never brought someone like him before, where she should've felt the most safe. That wasn't what he'd wanted, but it was what he'd done. He figured he could at least split the difference, a little.

He reached up, removed his hat, and tugged off his mask. "Can it disinfect these?" he asked, thinking for a moment of that other Peter.

She didn't speak. He could tell that her mouth was open, that her eyes were wide, but not much else about her expression without the goggles. With a sigh, he turned and balanced the mask and hat on another hanger, then fumbled around in his coat pockets for the spare pair of coke-bottles he kept there. The glasses had seen better days, that was sure, but they at least hadn’t been crushed back at the Arcadia.

He slid them on, reached a hand up to smooth whatever mess the mask had made of his hair, and risked a glance back at Maya.

She was...biting her lip now, blatantly staring at him, cheeks still flushed. Her dark eyes were hard to read, but he thought it seemed like she...liked what she saw.

He...found himself wishing so, anyhow.

Still. She was hurt, and needed to rest. He shook his head and stepped forward, bending over and scooping her up in his arms. "C'mon. Back to the couch?"

She gasped, startled at being lifted, gripping the front of his turtleneck tight. But she shook her head, and managed to point a little with her free hand. "Still bloody," she reminded him. "Bed... I... My bedroom's this way."

He nodded, and carried her out into the hallway and down the way he'd gone before, past the bathroom on the left to the door on the right, at the end of the hall.

Unlike the rest of the home he'd seen, there weren't any glowing lights in here, the room cast in the sort of dark shadows and muted colors he was used to. He held back the sigh of relief as he stepped forward and set her down on the big, soft-looking bed among a mountain of pillows.

She settled into them with a groan, elbowing herself a little crevasse so she could lie back, half propped up, and pull the thick gray comforter up over her chest. "Sorry it's dark in here, but I'm not likely t'be awake much longer."

"That's just fine," he said, looking around the almost-black-and-white bedroom curiously. It was simpler than the other room, just the bed and a wardrobe, another overstuffed bookcase, a standing mirror, a little nightstand with a half-full glass of water. There were a couple curtains, and somethin’ that looked like an honest-to-goodness tapestry hanging up; the walls themselves were painted a pale color he couldn’t quite make out, but was easy enough on the eyes. "It's...kinda nice, actually. Familiar."

"Oh..." she said softly, frowning. "I'm sorry, Peter. This place must be awful for you."

"That's not the word I'd use," he told her honestly, though he wasn't entirely sure what he _would_ use for this colorful, comfortable place. "Anyhow, I've seen worse."

She laughed softly, shifting to a better spot among the pillows. "Right. I forgot you're a regular at dimension-hopping these days."

"Huh. Yeah, guess I am."

She turned her head and smiled up at him. "You gonna tell me what you stole from that other dimension yet?"

"I didn't _steal_ anything," he reminded her. After a moment's hesitation, he admitted, "It was _given_ to me."

"Fine," she huffed, still smiling. "You gonna tell me what you were _given_ from that other dimension?"

"No."

"Ah, well. Worth a shot." She pulled the blanket up a little higher, but extended one arm upward, waving her pointer finger around. "Got an idea about that, anyway. Remind me to tell ya...when I wake up."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching as her arm dropped back, draping dramatically across her eyes. "You...sure you're okay to sleep?"

"Hmm?” she asked around a yawn. “No, yeah, I'm fine, big guy. Bullet's gone, patch is working, and I'm still a little high off that painkiller. I'll be peachy-keen. You just...make yourself at home, yeah? Sorry I'm a bad host, but there's food in the fridge, and there's probably nothin' you could break that can't be fixed. Just steer clear of the windows."

"Why, what's out there?"

"Nothing," she answered flatly. "Literally. Far as the eye can see, and farther still. No horizon, no stars, no nothin'. You look out there, your brain won't enjoy it, I promise you that. I've lived my whole life out here, and even _I_ don't like it."

"So why have 'em? The windows, I mean."

That at least made her lower her arm, but she turned her face away and wouldn't look at him. "...Mom put 'em in,” she answered, her voice carefully even. “She used to...be able to control where the house showed up, could plot it to a different world every day, a different...sunset every evening. But I can't, so... It's just me and the void."

For some reason, that's what settled it.

He bent over, started undoing his boots. Figured she'd started dozing off, since she was quiet for once. But when he stood and moved around the other side of the bed and undid his gunbelt, she asked, "What ya doin', Pete?"

"Makin' myself at home." He sat the pistol and his glasses down carefully on the nightstand, stood his boots on the floor beside the bed, and flopped down on top of the blankets. He had to bite back a groan—he hadn't known a bed could _be_ so soft—and rolled halfway over to look at her. "I know you trust your tech, but I don't know it and I'm not leavin' ya. You have any trouble, or start feelin' bad, I'll be right here, okay?"

It was funny; even without his glasses, he could actually see her a little _better_ in the dark, the shadows outlining her features in ways his eyes and brain were used to.

Her eyes were wide as she stared at him, surprised and...something more. She squeezed them shut, pressed her head deeper into the pillows...and scooted a little closer to him. When she spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Thanks, Peter. Goodnight."

"Yeah. G'night, Maya."


	5. It's Only a Paper Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note, there's a brief mention in this chapter of a character's past eating disorder; I don't think it's enough to warrant a full tag or more obvious content warning, but I certainly don't want to inadvertently harm anyone by working through my issues via silly fanfiction. If there's ever anything that you guys think should be tagged or warned against, please let me know and I'll be very glad to do so.
> 
> There was supposed to be a good deal more to this chapter, but writing this chunk really sprawled out on me in ways I wasn't expecting. I'm really pleased with the result, though, and hope you will be, too. The next chapter is mostly sketched out, so hopefully it won't take too long for me to do some edits and get it posted. Until then, enjoy!

Maya woke slowly, fuzzily, first aware of the pain throbbing in her shoulder (which wasn’t new), the tingling at her hip (which was strange, but not alarming), and the insistent knowledge that she would need to pee soon.

Still, she was warm and comfortable and so, _so_ tired, and the next thought she could latch onto was the calculation of whether she could just shift a little and fall back asleep, or if getting up and going to the bathroom would be enough to wake her for good. She knew she didn’t want that.

She hadn’t remembered grabbing her weighted blanket before bed—didn’t really remember _going_ to bed in the first place—but there was definitely a nice heaviness keeping her snuggled into the mattress. Despite the pain, and the certainty that it hadn’t been quite enough, this was the best rested she’d felt in a long time. With a sigh, she decided to take her chances with a little extra sleep, pulled the covers up to her chin and tried to roll over on her side, off of her bad shoulder.

There was a groan.

It wasn’t _hers_.

The weight on her shifted; the mattress dipped; a body—warm and solid—moved against hers. Her eyes shot open.

“ _Peter_ ,” she breathed, the memory of her latest case rushing to the forefront of her mind like a tidal wave, sweeping away all else. Oh, she’d really fucked this one _right_ up.

She eased onto her back again, turning her head to look at the monochromatic man curled around her. Talk about stolen relics... She’d pulled him out of his dimension with hardly a second thought. Not his first jump, at least, and she could be a little freer with clients than civilians, but this was... _This was_...

What even _was_ this?

He was still sleeping as she mentally cursed herself, still laying on top of all the blankets. At some point he’d flopped over, trying to lay on his stomach with her half-wedged beneath him, an arm and a leg thrown over and holding her closer than she should’ve been. A quick glance around confirmed that she was as much to blame as he was, that they’d both scooted in from their respective sides of the bed and ended up cuddled together in the middle.

He looked...peaceful. The crease in his brow had smoothed away, and his shoulder rose and fell with steady, rhythmic breaths. His hair—completely, impossibly black—stood at ludicrous angles except where it had fallen in his face, and the urge to reach up and smooth it back was nearly overwhelming.

Void, she wanted to touch him, to run the pads of her fingers along those high, narrow cheekbones, to trace the line of his nose and feel all the places it'd been broken, to map every pearlescent scar in his too-white skin and see how dark her hands looked in contrast.

Instead, she bit her lip, and pressed her fingers into one of the extra pillows by her head. Moving quickly, she slid the pillow under his arm as she slid out from underneath, then rolled out of bed and to her feet. He groaned a little, curling around the pillow and tucking it beneath his chin, but the change didn’t seem to have woken him. With a sigh, Maya ran a hand through her hair, trying not to just stand there staring at the strange man in her bed, snuggling her pillow...

Why’d he have to be so _hot_ under that mask?

She shook her head, tore her gaze away from the curve of his back and the firm muscle bulging through his turtleneck sweater, swiftly grabbed a change of clothes from the wardrobe, and fled for the bathroom.

She peed, washed her hands, splashed a little water on her face and ran her wet hands through her hair. For a moment, she hesitated there, hunched over the sink and staring at herself in the mirror. She looked... _rough_. The perpetual bags under her eyes were darker, more pronounced than usual, making her eyes look bright and almost feverish. There was a cut on her lip she didn’t remember acquiring, a thin scab of blood that flaked away when she picked at it. Her jaw-length hair looked tired and dried out, both limp and frizzy, way overdue for a wash day. Her cheeks—round and often rosy and normally responsible for making her look about a decade younger than she was—seemed almost gaunt. Her normal schedule had been fucked for a while now, but how long had it been since she’d had a real meal, something that hadn’t been extruded from the vending machines at work?

With a sigh, she straightened and stripped off the cardigan, careful of her shoulder, pinching herself in the middle just to see. Yeah, she’d almost definitely lost some weight. After all those years of hating her body, she’d finally gotten to a point where she mostly liked looking the way she did, and the last thing her self esteem needed right now was to get a little thinner because she’d been forgetting to properly feed herself. That was not a cycle she needed to go down again.

Especially not after her unreasonably attractive, lean and well-built client had seen her nearly naked.

She cringed at the memory, peeling off her stiff impact bra and switching it out for a strapless, less restrictive one. At least she could blame her thoughtlessness on the blood loss and the painkiller, but that didn’t make it feel any less mortifying. Still, he hadn’t seemed... _displeased_ to see her like that...

No. Nope, she wasn’t even going to think about it. She shook her head, retrieving her shoulder brace from the cabinet under the sink, gritting her teeth as she slid it up her arm and strapped it into place. Now that she was up and moving, the dull throb of pain had grown into a gnawing ache, so she grabbed an NSAID shot from the drawer and gave herself a hearty dose. She hoped like hell she hadn’t retorn her rotator cuff; just in case, she swiped a hand across the mirror’s surface to pull up her to-do list, dragged “Visit the Clinic” up to the very top.

Beneath it, she added “Cook Food” and “Eat a Full Meal”, even added an alert so she wouldn’t forget. Every time she walked past a mirror in the house, those notes would flash to remind her until she completed the tasks. There were definitely a few perks to living in a house that was almost sentient.

She finished getting dressed, changing to a fresh pair of underwear and tugging on some cozy knitted pants, then finally peeled off the nano patch and assessed the damage. The new skin where the bullet had entered still looked a little pink and raw, about the color of her palms, but it should continue darkening over the next few hours. Hopefully, by the time she actually dragged herself to the clinic, the medic wouldn’t even be able to notice and she wouldn’t have to explain _all_ of what’d happened to bring her there. She pitched the used patch into the recycler, tossed her dirty clothes into the hamper, and buttoned herself back up into the oversized beige cardigan.

Peter couldn’t possibly have known that it was her favorite, that it was one of the few belongings of her dad’s she had. Its familiar weight and soft waffle stitch were a comfort. She eyed herself in the mirror one last time.

She still looked tired, her hair was still gross, and she was still dressed in what were essentially just pj’s; but hopefully she wouldn’t be horrendously offending her guest’s 1930’s sensibilities now, with her body actually covered. With a silk wrap tugged over her mess of hair, she looked almost presentable.

Peter was sound asleep when she peeked into the bedroom, cuddling her pillow, even snoring softly now. The longer he stayed here, the greater the risk of Domi noticing that something was up and coming to check on her, and she _really_ did not want that.

She understood the importance of accuracy and accountability, and she'd certainly never lied in a report before. But it'd be one thing to have the chance to explain all this in her own words and with plenty of time to tell it right. It would be something else entirely for her boss to show up on her doorstep while the client was asleep in her bed.

...Still, it looked like he needed the rest about as much as she had. Maybe she could take the risk, let him sleep a _little_ longer. She eased the door closed softly, and went to check on his laundry.

The trench coat and vest seemed fine, decontaminated and free of blood and smelling fresh. The thought occurred to her, that she could look through his pockets for the relic while he slept, at least have something to show for herself, a reason why this little detour had been worth it. Any other case, any other client, she’d have done it in a heartbeat, but...

Damn it all, this was _why_ she didn’t get caught, didn’t get close.The Maintainers encouraged detachment, and she was one of the best. She jumped in, did her job, and got out before there was even a chance of making introductions, let alone getting dragged into someone else's firefight. She should never have stuck around after the first shots had been fired, should never have ended up anywhere near this situation. The idea of robbing him now was just untenable. He was a person, a... _friend_ , maybe, or something like it. Not just a client, not anymore.

She grabbed his mask absentmindedly, turning it over in her hands. She ran her thumbs along the rims of the goggle lenses and the carefully hand-stitched spiderweb pattern, thinking of what she’d seen, the reason she'd jumped back for real: Peter on his knees, pinned down by five men, a cop with a gun to his head. If she could get her hands on some untethered carbonweave from another monochrome—it wouldn’t take much, far less than a yard, for sure—there wasn’t a lot she could do for what looked like prescription lenses, but it’d give him _some_ bulletproofing, and...

And _nothing_. She needed to stop this, to distract herself, to keep from getting pulled any deeper into whatever the hell this was.

She flung the mask down and spun on her heel, determined to pull the man out of her bed if she had to, to jump him back to his world and write this case up as a wash and get back to her life—back to _herself_.

A glimmer caught her eye. Shoulders sagging, she turned and watched the narrow beam of light track its way along the wall, outlining the shape of a door with a rounded top. She could feel the doorknob in her hand without even moving closer—always, always there when she needed it, whether she wanted to need it or not. It had been dad’s most significant contribution to the house’s interior, but Maya hadn’t opened that door in a very long time.

It _was_ where her old robot should be, though, and it would be easier to boot him back up again than for her to spend hours scrubbing blood out of the upholstery, especially with her shoulder in this state. Sighing, she turned the knob, and watched the impossible door swing open.

As a kid, she’d thought the stairs were wonderful. Now, the best descriptor she could come up with was _nauseating_. The disorienting fluctuations in gravity and the shifting number and height of steps had lost their charm ages ago. The knowledge that she was traveling through unreality into a pocket dimension within a pocket dimension did nothing to keep her head and stomach from spinning. Repulsion had been, after all, the entire purpose of the stairway: to prevent anyone from discovering the room upstairs, and thus to keep it and its contents safe.

Maya tried her best not to wonder how much of her discomfort was purely emotional, and how much of it was because she might no longer be welcome upstairs. She reached the top feeling equal parts relief and dread.

She only hesitated for a moment, hand on the doorknob, before swinging it open. The light switch was lower on the wall than she remembered, but she flipped it all the same.

“What the _hell..?_ ”

The room was full of... _spider webs?_ From every surface, every corner, multicolored webs stretched from the canopy bed to the low dresser, from the beanbag chair to the dollhouse, the toy chest to the desk where she’d done her homework late at night, once upon a time. Where had they all _come from?_

“Are you mad at me?” she asked softly, laying a hand on the wall, as if the house could hear her. For all she knew, it could. “You mad I brought a stranger here? Mad I haven’t come upstairs in a while?”

There wasn’t any response. Of _course_ there wasn’t.

Maya sighed and hung her head, gaze falling to the two Tommy guns she’d displaced from Peter’s world, resting calmly on the old frog rug. She'd have to take them to the armory soon, just the thought of the registration tickets she'd have to submit enough to make her wince. How the hell was she going to explain why she'd disappeared two semiautomatic firearms from the midst of an interpersonal conflict she should've had nothing to do with? What the _hell_ was she going to say in her reports about any of this?

There weren’t any webs on the guns, at least, so that was something. Whatever the hell had made such a mess of the attic, it must’ve happened before she’d gone to Peter’s dimension, let alone before bringing him here.

Hell, maybe she just had a family of overly enthusiastic arachnids hiding out somewhere. Stranger things had definitely happened in this house, though she couldn’t imagine what they might’ve been eating. She hadn’t thought _anything_ could live in this place for long, aside from her.

But it was a puzzle for future-Maya. Right now, there were bloodstains on her carpet and a sleeping superhero in her bed, and that was already more than she could handle. She would figure out this _other_ spider problem once the first was taken care of.

Her old R/Dy-unit was still sprawled on the floor, appendages splayed, and she found the discarded personality matrix on the floor under the desk where she must’ve thrown it. She scooped up both and headed for the stairs with one last, lingering look around her old bedroom.

“I’ll be back,” she promised, flipping off the lights.

Back downstairs, she grabbed a cloth from the counter and knelt on the floor of the laundry room, partly to steady herself from the trip back down and partly so it was easier to wipe the multicolored webbing from the bot’s trunk and limbs. He was smaller than she’d remembered— _cuter_ , too. He looked something like a pale orange beachball, a round and squishy childproof body insulating all the hard tech inside, with four floppy appendages that could rotate almost completely around the sphere, save for the blank rectangular faceplate about the size of her hand. When she reattached all the wires she’d once torn out and plugged his chip back in, the faceplate lit up with a spinning circle of pink light.

It cycled for seven full rotations—longer than she’d ever seen him need to boot—before the light stretched out, spreading wide to span the plate. The face it sketched out was simplistic and cartoony, just a pair of eyebrows over two circles that “blinked” periodically, and a straight line of a mouth that expanded into a grin as the body rolled over and saw her. In the sing-song voice she’d almost forgotten, he chirped, “Hiya, Maya!”

She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and smiled down at him. “Hiya, Rudy. I missed ya, buddy.”

“Well,” he said, rocking his limbs beneath him and hauling himself up to a standing posture, “it has been eleven years, seven months, and twenty-two days since you detached my central processing.”

Had it really been that long? Rudy’d been the only reliable chronometer she could keep in the Void, and things had gotten fuzzy. It was a weird feeling to discover that she was actually a little _older_ than she thought she was. Must’ve missed a birthday or two in there somewhere.

“I’m sorry I did that, Rudy. I wish I hadn’t hurt you, but I wasn’t thinking about anyone but myself.”

“That’s okay, Maya-girl,” he said, patting her shoulder softly. “Like I was saying, sometimes we hurt the people we love without meaning to. It doesn’t mean we love them any less, it just means we get to love them better next time.”

The reminder of the last conversation they’d had, the reason _why_ she’d gotten so mad she’d ripped out all his wires, made her wince. “Yeah,” she sighed, feeling even younger than she’d believed she was a moment ago. “I know that now.”

“You’re all grown up!” Two of his little synthetic hands moved up to gently cup her face between them. His pink eyes blinked, the grin sobered, and his whole body tilted slightly to the side, giving him a curious look. “You look tired. Have you been having trouble sleeping again?”

She knew he was specifically designed for this, intentionally programmed to come across as sweet, affectionate, and caring. That didn’t stop her from wondering how long it’d been since anyone had held her face so tenderly, or from wanting to cry at the realization that she had no idea. “A bit,” she admitted, trying to disguise a sniffle. “Work’s been keeping me busy.”

“ _Work!_ You have a _job_ now? Oh, Maya, that’s—” Suddenly, his eyebrows lowered, grin dropping into a frown as his body rotated toward the door. “ _There’s an intruder_ ,” he said, the song and softness completely absent from his artificial voice.

“No,” she gasped, grasping one of his arms. The _last_ thing she needed right now was for her childhood robot companion to try to go on a rampage against Spider-Man in the house. She certainly hadn’t forgotten about that pistol he’d been packing. “No, it’s okay, it’s just Peter. He’s a guest.”

Rudy turned back to her, brows lifting in surprise. “A guest? Did you make a new friend, Maya-girl?”

“I...” She trailed off, remembering her earlier determination to get rid of Peter and get some serious distance between them. But she couldn’t look into the faceplate of this chipper little robot and lie to him—nor to herself. “Yeah, I think I did, maybe.”

“Well, that’s just great! You should introduce us!”

“Maybe later, buddy. Right now, I could really use your help with something.”

“That is what I’m here for!” He beamed at her. “What can I do?”

“Well, I had a bit of an accident, and now there’s some blood on the living room carpet and the couch. D’you think you could clean them for me?”

His expression contorted into one of sympathy. “Aw, Maya. Did you get any on your clothes? Do we need to go pick up any hygiene products?”

“Wha— _no!_ I didn’t mean—” she spluttered, then groaned, rubbing a hand against her temple where a headache was starting to form. “It wasn’t _that_ kind of accident, Rudy. I just...got hurt at work.”

“Are you in need of first aid?”

“No, Rudy, I’m okay.”

“Okay!” he chirped, then curved his arms around to make it look like he’d be standing with his hands on his hips, if he had any. “I certainly hope this job of yours isn’t putting you in dangerous situations.”

“No, they're very good to me,” she reassured. “I just got careless this time.”

He rocked his body to appear like he was nodding. “Okay! Don’t forget that your safety is of the utmost importance, Maya-girl! I’ll get started cleaning now. Maybe when I’m done, you can tell me all about this job of yours?”

“That sounds good, buddy. Thank you.”

He nodded again, swiveled his body around, and started making his loping strides to the door. Once he passed through it, though, his body rotated again, angling his faceplate up toward the ceiling, and called, “Hello, new friend!”

Maya could only stare in surprise as two gray-socked feet dangled from above the doorframe, followed by two very long legs and then the rest of Peter, dropping down from where he’d apparently been clinging, once again, to the ceiling.

She sighed sharply. “You spyin’ on me now, Inspector?”

“I'm a detective, actually,” he corrected. At the look on her face, he reached up and nudged his glasses higher on his nose, looking at least a little abashed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to listen in, but I heard a voice I didn’t recognize. Wanted to make sure ya weren’t in trouble.”

“Oh.” That was...actually rather sweet. But did that mean—? “How much of that did you hear?”

“Not much,” he answered, too quickly, his eyes darting to the side. At least she could take some solace in the confirmation that, without his mask on, he was really a _terrible_ liar. “How ya feel?”

She knew he was just trying to change the subject, but she took the opportunity gratefully. "Just fine," she said, heaving herself to her feet. "You?"

" _I_ didn't get shot a couple hours ago," he reminded her, stepping into the room.

"That was a couple _whole_ hours ago," she teased, tugging up the hem of her sweater to show off her healing flesh. "See? You don't gotta worry about me, big guy."

He gave a low whistle, lifting a hand toward her. He'd taken the gloves off at some point, and though she tried not to show any reaction, the feeling of his warm, calloused, too-pale fingers against her skin seemed to sear itself, unbidden, into her memory. He prodded at the still-tender spot, then curled his hand against her side, rubbing his thumb along the edge where pink skin met brown.

Maya sucked in a breath at the gentle touch. The sound made Peter realize what he was doing, and he all but jumped back, drawing away and shoving his hands deep in his pockets. He was still excessively tall, even with his shoulders hunched like that, but a lot of the bulk she’d thought he had when they first met had apparently been the trench coat’s doing. With the way that sweater clung to him, the man was _stacked_ ; but he was also much thinner than she’d expected.

“That’s real swell,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes, his cheeks turning a slightly darker gray color—was that him blushing? “I’m awful glad you’re alright.”

“Thanks, Pete.” She picked up his mask and tossed it to him, said, “Your clothes are all set. I can take you back whenever you want.”

She’d thought he’d put the mask back on, but he just stood there, looking down at it in his hands. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” she said, crossing her arms in a way she hoped didn’t look too defensive. “Unless you...want a bite to eat? I dunno about you, but I’m starving.”

He looked up, brow creased in concern, and shook his head slowly. “I, uh—” His stomach growled, cutting him off. He put a hand to his belly, and oh, yeah, that was _definitely_ a blush. With an annoyed grunt, he went on, “I should probably get back. Don’t want those goons runnin’ around my city all half-cocked, tearing the place up lookin’ for me. Someone might get hurt.”

“Oh!” Maya laughed, miming hitting herself in the head. “I’m sorry, I should’ve explained sooner. I meant what I said: I can take you back _whenever_ you want. We’re not a part of your timeline, out here.”

He frowned, looking uncertain. “We’re not... I... _What?_ ”

She grinned. “Basically, I jumped you out of the time on your world, as well as out of the space. I can’t double back on myself; it’s not a good feeling, being in two places at once, and the dimension always ends up popping one of me back here if I try it. But I can take you back to the moment after we left, drop you wherever you wanna go.”

“That’s a...neat trick,” he said slowly. “So we can go right back to the Arcadia?”

“Maybe not _right_ back,” she suggested. “There were an awful lot of guns up on that roof, and they didn’t seem thrilled to see us the first time. I doubt our second appearance would go much better. But I can drop you a building or two over, if you wanna watch them scramble to figure out where the hell we got off to and how.”

He smirked, apparently enjoying the thought. “Yeah, okay... That sounds swell. But you still don’t gotta feed me.”

Maybe it was the conversation with Rudy that was making her this sappy, maybe it was having been upstairs again. Maybe it was just that Peter hadn’t put that mask back on, and she couldn’t help but feel her careful defenses crumbling at the sight of his scarred face and his sad, soft eyes and his crooked smile.

Whatever it was, it compelled her to be honest with him. “You...tried to get me outta there. I was in so much pain I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t _jump_ , and that’s... That’s what I _do_. I think you, of all people, could maybe understand what that kinda helplessness would be like. You could’ve left me, maybe would’ve had a better chance of getting free if you had.” She shrugged, trying to think of how else to explain, but from the look on his face, she didn’t need to. “Let me cook you breakfast. It’s the least I could do.”

He shook his head, and even with her slowly coming to terms with the fact that she liked this guy way more than she should, her disappointment at the thought that he still didn’t want to stay was much too strong. But instead of turning her down, he said, “I couldn’t’a left you, Maya. Maybe I _should’ve_ , but...” He shook his head again, cleared his throat. “I stay for breakfast, will you answer my questions?”

She tried not to acknowledge the strength of her relief. “Only if you’ll do the same. But no games this time.”

He put his hands on his hips and sighed dramatically, but there was a definite grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, that seems fair.” He stepped aside, bowing her toward the door. “After you.”


	6. What a Little Moonlight Can Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends! So sorry for the delay on this one--life got pretty overwhelming for a bit there, and the stars were just not in position for me to have both the time and the motivation to write simultaneously. But I'm taking a few days off work for a much-needed mental health break, and I'm really hoping to use this chance to get this story finished, or at least get somewhere close.
> 
> Fair warning, there's just a _ton_ of dialogue and exposition in this chapter. I tried to break it up and keep things interesting, so hopefully it isn't too boring. A lot of my work on this story lately has been totally out of order, so there were a lot of beats I really wanted to hit here so they'll get to pay off later. I promise we'll be getting to the juicy stuff soon.
> 
> Oh, also, there's kind of a recipe hidden in this chapter, but if you want the secret to my shakshouka success, just let me know and I'll be glad to share in more detail ;3c In the meantime, enjoy!

Peter followed her into the kitchen, a bright, disorienting room that seemed to span centuries, with a brick oven and a hearth next to a gleaming array of appliances he couldn’t make head nor tails of. There were a jumble of shockingly clear photographs hanging on the walls, mostly landscapes in an improbable spectrum of colors, or city skylines full of buildings even more spindly and towering than the futuristic New York he’d visited before. A little dinette set huddled in one corner, two high-backed chairs tucked under a round table, a bowl of what he assumed to be fruit resting on top. Unlike the rest of the home he’d seen so far, the place was pristine in a way that made him suspect she didn’t use it often—or, at least, hadn't for a while, since she moved through the space like she knew her way around it.

“So, you live here by yourself?”

“Hmm?” She pulled open the door of what he’d thought was a cabinet but turned out to be some kind’a highbrow Frigidaire. “Mostly, yeah. I have a cat sometimes.”

“‘Sometimes’?”

She smirked. “Like I said, there’s a lotta worlds out there. You really think anything could keep a dimension-jumping cat in one place? She comes and goes as she pleases.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed, trying not to think of Felicia or how he missed her.

Maya bent at the waist to rummage through a drawer—grateful as he was for the distraction from his thoughts, he did try his damnedest not to stare at her ass in those tight pants. “You ever had—oh, what would you call it in your world? Shakshouka?”

“Sha-what now?”

She snorted a laugh. “Maybe not, then. It’s tomatoes, eggs, peppers... That all sound good? You got any food allergies?”

“I, uh... I don’t think so,” he told her, eyeing the growing pile of produce she was making on the counter. “You need a hand with any’a that?”

“Nah, I got this. Mind to move that skillet for me, though? It’ll be easier on the front eye.”

Peter nodded, fetching the cast iron pan and the heavy wooden cutting board, opening jars of oil and spices and olives as Maya chopped garlic and onions, sliced peppers and tomatoes, the knife in her left hand. She was good with it, but he didn’t miss the way she winced whenever she moved a little too quick, or how she side-stepped right so she didn’t have to lift her arm or reach too far, the shoulder obviously still bothering her.

But she hadn’t seemed to wanna talk about it earlier, so he wasn’t gonna bring it up now. Anyhow, he was happy to help where he could, especially with how good that pan was smellin’ so far.

“So, about these questions of yours?” she prompted, casting a sly glance over her shoulder. “I’m guessing you didn’t just wanna ask if I had any pets.”

Peter blew out a breath, glancing around, trying to think where to even start with her. His gaze fell on one of the photographs, and he pointed a thumb at it. “Which one’a these is yours?”

She turned her head to look, as though she’d forgotten what was hangin’ on her own walls, then flashed a smile. “I took ‘em all. Only started...oh, probably a couple years ago? So it isn’t everything, but I’m trying to keep track of all the dimensions I’ve been to.”

“Nah, I mean... That sounds real swell, but I meant what kind’a world are you from?”

“Oh!” She blinked, the smile dropping away, and she lowered her eyes, pretending to focus on stirring the sauce on the stove. “I’m... _not_. I was born here in the house, in the void between dimensions.”

He frowned. “... _How?_ ”

“Well, y’see, when two people love each other very much...”

“ _Obviously_ not what I meant.”

She let out a soft breath, half laugh and half sigh. Carefully, she made a little divot in the sauce with the back of a spoon, then cracked an egg into it, and repeated the process the whole way 'round. “That guy I mentioned? The one who jumped in his sleep? That was...my dad. Magic, through and through. Always said he visited a new world every night, until the night he met mom. She was still in school when they met, studying _quantum physics_ , of all things. I don't believe there's any such thing as destiny, but there's maybe infinite worlds out there. Statistically, a coincidence like that was bound to happen eventually."

"Love at first sight, huh?"

She snorted a laugh, setting a lid on top of the pan and turning away to fuss with some little round gizmo on the counter. "Maybe on dad's part, but mom couldn't stand him. Said he was arrogant, pedantic, kept trying to flirt with her while she was studying. But he had insights for her research, a perspective she'd never even imagined hearing. And she asked so many questions, probing into theories he'd never even considered. They spent every night together, working and talking, getting to know each other..."

"And then you came along?" he guessed.

"Not quite. Mom submitted her thesis, arguing that dimensional transit wasn't just possible, it was _attainable_. But she couldn't prove her work; it's better to just not cite your sources if your source is 'my magic boyfriend who appears to me in his dreams'. But it doesn't get your thesis approved. Apparently it gets you laughed out of the Dean's office."

" _Ouch_."

"Yeah.” A sour look crossed her face, but she shook her head and retrieved a loaf of crusty bread, started sawing off a few slices. “But she'd already started working on...let’s call it a ‘practical application’, and by then she and dad had both been contacted by the Maintainers.”

“Those’re the folks you work for?”

“Mm-hm. We’ve got a few different branches. I do Recovery for the Earth-based sector, primarily in the Human Division, because my body doesn’t always work so good on other planets and it’s hard to go unnoticed in a crowd full of, say, bird-people, for example.”

Peter nodded, unsure what that would look like and even less sure that he would want to know. “I suppose that would be tough, yeah.”

“So an agent from the Prevention branch—Earth-based and Human—visited my parents. Dad’s Earth has pretty strict regulations against dimensional magic, but because of the way he did it, no one could ever _prove_ he was doing it. Mom’s planet wasn’t ready for that kinda technology yet, but dad’s interference had jump-started things in a dangerous way. The agent came, said they could either stop seeing each other or sign on as Maintainers and put their knowledge to good use.”

“I’m guessing they found another option?”

Maya smiled, and gestured around the kitchen with the bread knife. “You’re standing in it.”

He placed his hands on his hips and looked around, giving the place a whistle. “A ‘practical application’, huh? Your folks _really_ moved Upstate.”

The comment made her laugh—harder and, he thought, more genuinely than he’d heard her do before. It was a real nice laugh, one he wouldn’t mind hearing again sometime. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

For a while, he just watched her; watched her enjoy the laugh, watched her smile fade, watched her spoon up the eggs and sauce into two bowls and place a slice of bread on top. He carried them for her over to the little table, while she poured what smelled like coffee outta the round machine. “You want a cup?”

“Please,” he said, but when she handed over the mug, he froze.

“What? Peter, what’s wrong?"

It all seemed _right_ , was the problem. The shape and feel of the white mug, the weight of it in his hand and the heat radiating against his fingers, the steam rising up and the smell it brought... It should’a been just fine, but the color of the drink was just _wrong_.

“I, uh... It’s not black,” he stuttered out, starin’ into the mug like he’d been hypnotized, tryin’a make his brain make sense of what his eyes were seeing.

“What? Sure it— _oh_ ,” she breathed. “Oh, _shit_ , Peter, I’m sorry. Can I— Want me to get you some water instead?”

“I— _no_ ,” he grunted, closing his eyes and shaking his head, not sure why _this_ , of everything he’d seen, was throwin’ him for such a loop. This whole _house_ was wrong, and everything in it, including the gal who lived here; but it’d all seemed so bizarre, so _other-worldly_ to begin with, the colors hadn’t had much chance to get to him yet. Coffee, though... Well, he’d sure drank more than his fair share’a the stuff back home. It should’a been familiar as anything, but it was _wrong_.

Still, now that he knew what the problem was, he could get past it. He shook his head some more, and eased himself into one’a the chairs. “Nah, I’m alright. Sorry ‘bout that.”

She frowned, looking embarrassed, running a hand over the pretty scarf around her hair. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I’m not much used to guests, I wasn’t thinking. You just... Everything I’ve thrown at you, you’ve seemed so _cool_ about it. I keep forgetting how strange this all must be.”

“S’alright,” he told her, givin’ her a smile, grateful when she returned it. “Not my first, uh, _jump_ , remember?”

“Right, yeah,” she chuckled, settling into the seat across from him with one leg folded beneath her and her own mug of wrong coffee in hand. “You gonna tell me where you went, then?”

Instead of answering, he busied himself with loading up a spoonful of the food she’d made, careful not to look too close at what he was eating in case his brain short-circuited again. The egg looked just about normal, anyhow, and it smelled damned good, and he was awful hungry. “You were tellin’ me about your folks,” he reminded her, sidestepping her question.

“Ah, right,” she sighed, and took a sip of her coffee. “What more did you wanna know?”

“Mm!” he said around a mouthful, surprised at how good it was when everything she’d thrown into it had seemed so regular. He took a sip of the coffee to wash it down, and that was great, too, so long as he didn’t look directly at it. “This is... This is _real good_.”

“Thanks,” she said with another real laugh, starting to tuck into her own meal. “Glad you like it.”

He nodded his head and took another drink, trying not to get too hung up on that laugh’a hers, trying to remember what they’d been talking about before he got distracted. “So you still, uh... You ended up with these ‘Maintainer’ folks, even after they gave your parents the whole ‘join up or split up’ speech?”

“I didn’t have a lot going for me at the time,” she said with a shrug, then drummed her fingers against the table, thinking. “And I’m not...much of a romantic, anyway. I mean, it’s a sweet story, but I saw how it ended, or at least parts of it. I wouldn’t enjoy someone forcing my hand like that either—and don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty glad to exist, most days—but in the end... They were young, and their relationship was literally putting their worlds at risk. Who’s to say whether it was worth it?”

He stilled, the spoon lifted halfway to his mouth. “...How’d it end, then?”

“With me alone in this _stupid_ house,” she muttered, a sudden, sharp anger in her tone as she glared at her mug, lookin’ half-ready to throw it across the room. But she sighed and took a sip from it, instead.

“Mom tried her best, probably. But she wanted to be a scientist, not a housewife. Dad could only stay here when he slept, but got to live the rest of his life when he was awake. He _had_ to, to keep anyone from finding out about us, or getting suspicious... But mom grew to resent him for it. She lost everything—her acclaim, her work, her future, her _freedom_ —to stay here and take care of a magic house and a kid. It wasn’t _all_ bad; she could move the house, like I said, so we traveled a lot. Had a few regular worlds we visited, places with families who didn’t ask too many questions so I could grow up around normal kids, make friends, all that jazz. Mom performed field studies on local flora and fauna, compared them to what she remembered from her world, just to keep herself busy. She nabbed a jail-broken Rearing/Domesticity-bot to handle my schooling and serve as an artificial babysitter, whenever she needed time away. We’d jump out somewhere far, someplace quiet, learned to hunt and fish and forage. Tried to make our own clothes, traded supplies with folks we met; tried not to steal, at least, whenever we could help it. And we’d always get back to the house in time to watch the sunset, and wait for dad to come home.”

“...Until he didn’t?” Peter guessed.

She snapped her fingers. “Got it in one, detective.”

He sat there quietly, patiently, watching and waiting for her to elaborate. After a moment, with a sigh, she did.

“Mom was...devastated. Then furious. He’d been coming home later and later for a long time by then. She was convinced he had another family or something, back home or off in some other dimension. The house was designed so it could never visit their home worlds, so no one there could ever track us down. But she jumped as close as we could get, then started spreading out further, searching everywhere for him. We were jumping multiple times a day—dozens, maybe hundreds. I got so sick, she actually stopped and took me to a doctor. I’d never been inside a hospital before; thought I was dying. Never been so scared in my life. They couldn’t do much for me, but just staying in one place for a while made me better. That was how we found out I could jump. Hell, it might be the reason _why_ I can jump. But then mom said she didn’t wanna risk hurting me again, or maybe she just didn't want me holding her back. Either way, she parked the house out here in the void, tore the control panel out of the wall, and used it to jump herself away. Used to just be for short periods of time, then longer, and then... Well, she hasn’t been back.”

“How old were you?”

She shrugged. “It got real hard to keep track. Probably about twelve when dad disappeared. Maybe...fifteen, sixteen when I last saw mom.”

Peter scrubbed a hand down his face, knocking his glasses askew. “You... You’ve been alone out here since then?”

“Not really.” She tried to flash a smile, but it still came out sad. “A few years after she left, I heard a knock at the door. Scared me _shitless_. Domiviic, the Maintainer who first contacted my parents, found me. Said they’d been looking for me for a long time. By then, I’d gotten pretty good at jumping on my own—didn’t have much control, but another jump always brought me right back here, so I never had to worry about getting lost or stuck or anything. I knew how to take care of myself, and I’d gotten into the habit of hanging around a dimension for a while, pretending to be a tourist or something so folks wouldn't get too worked up about the stupid stuff I didn't know. Longest I did was a year in Nairobi in the 1990’s, just ‘cause I was sick of looking at this place. Worked at a coffeeshop, pawned all the house’s old furniture I hated for rent money, wrote a bunch of terrible poetry... But I got sick of that, too. Domiviic offered me something to do, something that _mattered_. They left their job with Prevention so they could be my mentor. Autonomous jumpers are rare, and we can be impossible to track down, but they never stopped looking for me. They always say I don’t owe ‘em anything for it, but... I’ll never stop being grateful. Even when they get on my last nerve.”

“Could they...tell you what happened to your folks?”

“Nah. I doubt anyone knows. They’re either dead somewhere, or they found something they like better than being my folks.” She shrugged and flashed another smile, not so sad this time. “And I’m okay with that, really. I don’t get to talk about this much, so I might seem a bit sappy, but... I have a whole life to live, and I’m making it a good one. If they don’t get to be a part of that... Well, it’s their loss, not mine.”

“It is,” he agreed with a nod, and when she lifted her head to meet his eye he saw that hers were a little watery—not quite crying, but closer than he liked. He leaned in and softened his voice, told her honestly, “Thanks for telling me all this, Maya.”

“Yeah, well... Thanks for listening.” She passed a hand quickly over her eyes, and shook her head. “It’s funny, I don’t think... I’d never tell this shit to civilians, and I have plenty of coworkers but Auts are rare and our stories make for good workplace gossip. I don’t think I’ve ever told all this to someone who didn’t already know the story, or some version of it.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know how to express the fact that he understood how big a deal that was, or how hard it must’ve been for her to share all this with a guy she barely knew, or how glad he was to be the guy. So instead, his dumb mouth blurted, stupidly, “Your eyes are the same color.”

“...What?” she asked, obviously confused, because the thing he’d just said hadn’t made any kind’a sense.

“A-as the coffee,” he tried to clarify, gesturing vaguely at his mug. “The color. It’s... _nice_.”

_‘Nice’?_

What’d he done with his mask? Why’d he agree to all this in the first place? He needed to get his mask back on and get back to his dimension quick, before his stupid mouth could say anything else so dingy.

But she was smiling, now, and her cheeks were darkening again in that awful pretty way, and when she pointed at the bowl in front of him with another’a those nice laughs, he felt rooted to the spot. “You can have more, y’know?”

Peter looked down, surprised to find his bowl empty, a chunk of bread held tight in his fingers, sopping up the last of the sauce. “I, uh... It’s real good,” he muttered, grateful for the change’a subject but still sounding like a fool.

But she just laughed again, and it didn’t even seem directed at _him_. “I haven’t cooked for somebody else in a long time, so I’m glad it’s not terrible. Please have more, there’s too much for just me.”

“You sure?” he asked, but was already rising out of the seat, bowl in hand, when she nodded. He took his time scooping out another egg, glad to have his back to her so she couldn’t see the face he was pulling at his own stupidity.

When he turned back around, she was scarfing down the rest of her own food, lifting the bowl to her lips and slurping up the last of the sauce. She flashed a sheepish grin as he sat again, busying her hands with tearing her bread into little chunks. “So, that’s my story, then. What’s yours?”

“What d’ya mean?” he asked, frowning.

“I mean, a little while ago you were chillin’ on my ceiling. I know _I’m_ unusual, but that sort’a thing doesn’t happen to just everybody.”

He huffed a laugh, shoving a spoonful of food into his mouth to give him a second to consider his answer. “I thought you said you’d met Spider-Man before.”

“Yeah, you guys keep popping up all over the place; the multiverse is _lousy_ with Spider-people, lately. Still, I’ve never made one breakfast before. Indulge me?”

G-d help him, he would. Between the sly grin on her face, the teasing look in her eye, and the eager way she’d leaned forward so the neck of her sweater fell open to reveal that dark mole on her collarbone and a gentle curve of cleavage, he figured he should just be glad she hadn’t asked him to hand over his relic on the spot. He wasn’t wholly sure he’d be able to resist.

Why’d she have to be such a sweet dish?

With a sigh, he told her about Ben Urich and the Goblin, about the overheard telephone call that had led him to the docks, about the idol and the spiders and the vision he’d had, and all the strangeness that’d happened to him ever since. But he also told her about his Uncle Benjamin and Aunt May; about his freelance job snapping photographs for the Bugle; about his attempts to make enough money to finish his degree and become a real journalist and put Spider-Man out of a job by exposing the villains of his city for what they really were, in print for all to see.

The surprising thing was, she seemed just as interested in the regular stuff as she was in the amazing, asked as many questions about his work at Aunt May’s soup kitchen as she did about fine art smugglers and spider-gods. She seemed interested in _all_ of it, and never called him crazy for any of it, and even laughed at his bad jokes.

He couldn’t remember when last he’d had such an easy time, just laughing with a beautiful dame and talking about the spider stuff as freely as anything else, all without having to worry he might hear the sound of gunfire out the window or feel the prickle of his spider-sense creeping up the back of his neck. Talking to her, he could be both Peter _and_ Spider-Man, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that. It’d been a marvel to discover a group of folks who understood him the first time, in that other New York; finding that feeling again in a gal like her felt like somethin’ close to a miracle.

So when she finally started clearing away their dishes and putting the food away, he couldn’t help but feel like he was about to lose something precious.

“You said you had an idea,” he blurted, grateful he’d remembered and found one more reason to keep himself here a little longer. “Before you fell asleep. Something about my, uh...relic?”

She nodded her head slowly, easing the Figidaire door shut and leaning back against the machine, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her sweater. “I did. I _do_. I...dunno if you’re gonna like it, though.”

Peter shrugged. “Try me.”

“Alright,” she said, rolling her eyes up toward the ceiling and taking a deep breath. “Client negotiations are...not my strong suit. More of a smash-and-grab kind’a gal, if I’m honest, and I’m usually pretty damn good at it. Whatever you took out of that other dimension, it isn’t safe anywhere but back where you got it...but there _is_ a kind of workaround we can do, when people refuse to part with their relics.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “What happens if I don’t like this workaround?”

“Then I submit my report and state that I was unable to retrieve the relic,” she said with a shrug. “The case gets reassigned, and some other specialist comes along to try to take it from you or convince you to give it up. No one will hurt you for it, but we won’t stop coming until that relic and your dimension are safe.”

He sighed heavily, not much enjoying the sound’a that. “Let’s hear it, then.”

She smiled. “It’s called a Sustained Stewardship Accord. There’s a pretty bulky contract involved, but the language is all localized, so you can have a lawyer from your world look it over without their having to know anything about the multiverse or the specifics of the case. Basically, we agree to let you keep possession of your relic, so long as you agree to let a Dimensional Maintenance representative stop by for regular visits. They’ll just be there to make sure it isn’t doing any damage, or to enact containment protocols if it starts. From the readings I got from your apartment, you’re well within the safety threshold for an SSA.”

“And this...‘representative’,” he said, nodding at her. “Would that be you?”

“Oh.” She blinked in surprise. “N-no, I’m not certified for Stewardship cases.”

“Could you... _get_ certified?”

“I... _Probably?_ Pretty sure I’ve done all the training. Never really looked into it, though.” She laughed, but he thought it sounded a little bit strained. “Never really wanted to visit a client again, once the job was done.”

“Do you...” he started, then had to pause and clear his throat. “D’you wanna...visit _me?_ ”

_Please?_

He tried not to let himself feel too disappointed, when she bit her lip and turned away—tried not to let himself _show it_ , at least. But when she spoke, she said, “I’ll speak to Domiviic. It might take a little time; we’ve all been busy lately, with that collision event to deal with. But I’ll see what I can do about getting my certification.”

“Good,” he said—too quickly, too eagerly, and he tried to recover. “I mean... I wouldn’t wanna work with anyone else.”

She smirked. “I’m touched.”

“In the head, maybe.”

“Yeah, well... Technically, I still owe you an egg cream.”

* * *

He went to retrieve his boots and pistol from the bedroom while she grabbed his clothes outta the laundry machine, and they met back up in the sitting room where she’d first brought him.

Her little robot friend had trundled off somewhere, and he was a little grateful, because the sight of it made him miss Peni something fierce. The room itself looked clean and sharp now, the couch and carpet clear of even the slightest hint of the gore that’d been there earlier, as well as the discarded clothing and the used dishes and the mess he’d made of her first aid kit. Even the bookshelves had been straightened up, and he was pretty sure he caught the scent of lavender in the air.

“I could really use one of those,” he told Maya, nodding as he took his coat and things off her hands and got started putting on his vest.

She clicked her tongue, moving to the couch and flipping up the cushions, looking for something. “You can have ‘im. I’ll never find my stuff again. Rudy! Where’s my plotter?!”

The tinny voice echoed from somewhere down the hall, “ _Your what?_ ”

“The black thing, looks like a watch? It was right here on the couch!”

“ _Oh! It’s on the third bookcase, top shelf!_ ”

“Why would it be all the way over _there?_ ” she grumbled, stalking across the room to what was, by whatever numbering system, the third bookcase. Short as she was, she had to stretch up on the tips of her toes trying to get the thing down.

“ _What was that?_ ”

“I said _thank you!_ ” she lied.

“ _You’re so welcome!_ ”

Trying not to laugh at her, Peter set his coat down and stepped over to her side and grabbed what he thought she was going for—a black round of stiff, smooth metal that did look something like a wristwatch.

Maya’s smile was warm and grateful as she took the thing from his hand, fingers brushing against his for what felt like a lingering moment, and snapped it around her wrist. “Thanks, big guy. Be right back.”

And then she disappeared.

“ _What—_ ” he gasped, but by the time he even got the word out, she'd already returned, tapping her fingers against the not-a-watch with a frown on her face, all the way over by the couch again. “Don’t _do_ that!”

“Huh?” She glanced up, looking confused, then surprised, then abashed and a little amused. “Oh! Right. Sorry, Pete. Just needed to grab a snapshot, make sure it’s safe to take you back.”

Shaking his head, he strode back over, grabbed up his coat and tugged it on. She lifted her hand, and his breath caught in his throat as a picture of New York—of _his_ New York—suddenly appeared, floating in front of her face. The low, cramped, dreary skyline had never looked so good before.

The image was just shy of transparent, and, with her standing on the other side, it seemed to paint her face in the shades of black and gray she’d be if she’d come from his dimension. For the first time, he got a good, solid look at just how beautiful she was, and it left him feelin’ dizzy and dumbstruck in the best, worst way.

“Looks like we can jump to this rooftop, just south of the Arcadia,” she was saying, and he had to work hard to focus on listening to her words and not just watching the movement of her full, dark lips. “It’s a few stories higher, so I doubt they’ll look for you there right at first, and even if they do spot you, you’ll have plenty of time to get away before they can make it up all those stairs. That sound like a plan?”

“Wha—huh?” he mumbled as the image dissipated, snapping his mouth shut and blinking to clear his head. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Sounds fine.”

“You okay, Peter?” she asked. She was still just as beautiful, even back to her normal color, even with her brow creasing with concern as she peered up at him. He couldn't not see it.

“I’m fine!” he told her, his voice sounding a little too loud even to his own ears, and he fumbled with his mask for a moment, tryin’a give his hands something almost-normal to do.

“O-kay,” she said slowly, obviously disbelieving. She leaned back against the couch, picking up his hat and watching it twirl between her fingers, and when she spoke her voice was soft as sin. “I really, uh... It’s been nice talking to you, Peter.”

“Yeah. For me, too,” he agreed, lifting the mask over his head. “Ain’t every day a pretty dame falls outta the sky just to come see me. Gettin’ shot at again is gonna feel awful pedestrian after this.”

She cut a sideways kind’a glance at him, her cheeks going real dark real quick, one hand reaching up like to tuck her hair back before she remembered it was all wrapped up and just tapped her fingers against the scarf instead. “ _Pretty_ , huh?”

Peter hesitated in pulling down his mask, surprised he’d been able to fluster her like that, and sidled a step closer to her with his face still exposed. She didn’t pull away. “You’re right,” he told her, watching carefully for any sign he might be reading her wrong. “ _Gorgeous_ ’d be closer to the mark.”

She stood up straight, stood close enough to touch, biting her lip again and _damn_ if he didn’t want to bite it, too. “...Is that right?”

“That’s right,” he said, his hands moving to her waist like they were drawn by an invisible force, and her felt her shiver at the touch but she sure didn’t push him away. He lowered his head, watching the way her eyes lingered on his lips before making their way back up to meet his, and asked, “You _sure_ ya ain’t magic?”

It was a real cornball line, if ever he’d heard one. But from the way her lips pulled into a grin, and her hand came to rest against his chest, and she started to rise up on her toes to meet him, it seemed like she _liked_ cornball.

He could work with that.

“You wanna find out?” she breathed, and he could feel her breath against his skin, and then he was grinning too, leaning in to meet her lips as her eyelids fluttered closed...

And someone pounded at the door.

She jolted back like she’d been shocked. Peter’s hand went to the pistol at his hip, as a voice called through the wood, “ _Maya_ , you in there?! You haven’t reported in yet, is everything alright?!”

Her eyes were wide as she turned back to him; she thrust his hat against his chest and threw her good arm around his neck and hissed, “ _Time to go_.”

He barely had time to close his eyes and brace himself before she pulled him apart—and _away_ —again.


	7. Mood Indigo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, friends! I hoped to have this posted yesterday, but this chapter was a little more of a pain to write than I was expecting. Might end up coming back and editing this a bit later, but for now I think I'm finally pleased with how it turned out!
> 
> I'm planning on having probably one more real chapter after this, and then something like an epilogue after that. This has been super fun to write, but I'm also really looking forward to having it finished :')
> 
> Anyway, I think that's all I have for now! Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

The office was a little cramped, just a glorified closet down the hall from the daily bustle of the _Daily Bugle_ , but it had a big enough window for him to make a quick getaway when the need arose, and his name on the door. That was all he could really ask for.

And, if nothin’ else, at least it gave some degree of cover for the things he knew and why he knew ‘em. No one would believe that scrawny, awkward Parker down the hall was actually, secretly, the _Spider-Man_ ; but the lady typists were sweet on him despite the fact that his face had seen the bad side of a few too many sets’a knuckles, and everyone knew how those gals liked to talk. With tip-offs like theirs, _anyone_ could make for a decent private dick, even a fella like _him_.

So, sure: decent cover, big window, name on the door...and, as of late, a good excuse to get out of the apartment.

It’d been a couple weeks since the dame had appeared— _literally_ out’a _nowhere_ —in the middle of his studio. A couple weeks since she’d maybe-flirted with him in his former-favorite soda shop, a couple weeks since she’d helped him flee through an abandoned hotel from a slew of gangsters tryin’a kill him, a couple weeks since she’d saved his life and pulled him out of his world...

A couple weeks since she said she’d be _back_.

The waiting was makin’ him batty, pacing around the place, expecting at every turn that he’d look up and find her there, or spot another not-quite-white envelope on top of his desk. His Spider-sense had let ‘im know the last time, though it’d taken him a minute to figure it out, to see why he’d got the nagging feeling that somethin’ was wrong with his apartment. The color was so close, he almost didn’t notice, but there hadn’t been anything like it on his desk when he’d left for the _Bugle_ that morning.

The photographs inside the envelope had been so bright, so vibrant, they’d seemed to gleam there in his apartment—in his _dimension_. He’d had to sit down, to give his eyes and mind the time to adjust to what it was they were seein’, to recognize the black-and-red figure swingin’ into or out’a each frame.

She was a decent photographer, that Maya. Even in motion, Miles was always clear, always centered, even with the gleaming buildings and cheering crowds around him. Even without the letter she’d wrote him, he’d known exactly what this was, exactly where and who it came from.

That’d been twelve days ago, not that he was countin’. She was a gal of her word. Good to know, but that knowledge wasn’t doin’ his patience (or lack thereof) many favors.

So he’d been workin’ hard to keep from dwellin’ on the girl from Nowhere; but the creeps of his city had seemed real skittish after Spider-Man escaped the unescapable, right out from under the noses of Heinrich’s best and brightest. The temporary reprieve had been a welcome relief for New York, sure, but it left him with too much free time rattlin’ around inside his own skull. Cleanin’ up his old files, dustin’ off old leads, and combin’ through old cases gave him _somethin'_ to do other than fretting about when he might see her again.

Still, every time he tried to submerse himself in his coldest of cases, he always seemed to burst to the surface, clinging to the scrap of paper like it was some kind’a lifeline. He couldn’t carry the photographs with him, wouldn’t risk losin’ ‘em or havin’ ‘em seen by someone else, no matter how bad he itched to look. So they stayed shut up tight in his safe back home, but the _letter_... Well, that was just black ink on almost-white paper, and she’d been careful not to say anythin’ too incriminating, and he wasn’t even surprised anymore to look up from the Brooks case and find that his hands were unfolding it again.

Her handwriting was small and cramped and looping; he’d spent hours poring over the page, trying to make sure he’d read every word right—then hours more, abandoning the pretense and giving in to the truth that he just wanted to reassure himself she’d been real. He knew the message by heart by now, but that didn’t stop him from readin’ it again.

_Peter,_

_I told you I’d find your friend. Can’t tell you how glad I am to have such good news._

_Miles is doing just fine, and the people there really seem to love him. I can see why; just from following him around for a bit, he’s a genuinely lovable guy. I almost wish I could’ve brought you back a souvenir, but then we’d be even more sunk than we are. I did sneak a few photos, though, and developed them back at my place so they’re safe for you to keep; promise me you won’t let anyone else get a look at them?_

_Sorry I couldn’t stick around to hand them over in person; we’ve been busy, and certification is a bit more complicated than I thought it’d be. I think it’ll be worth it, though._

_See you soon,_

_Maya_

“Hey-o, Parker! There’s a _dame_ here t’see ya.”

He didn’t have to fake his surprise at the bark of O’Leary’s voice, or at the fact he’d actually taken the time to walk down here himself. Must be _some_ dame, to get an escort all this way by that wet sock of an office manager.

Peter Parker, Private Eye, got his fair share of women clients, though when he did there usually wasn’t much to the case—a cheating husband or missing boyfriend, and more times than not they’d turn up in the Black Cat or wash up in the Harbor. But hittin’ the bricks and sniffin’ around a few sleazy bars for a couple days sure beat what he’d _been_ doin’, and the money wouldn’t hurt if there was any to be had, so he stuffed the letter back in his pocket and gestured toward the door.

“Yeah, sure, send her in,” he called, shuffling the remains of the Brooks case back into its file folder. When he glanced up, he spotted the figure filling his doorway, and understood why O’Leary’d done it.

She was a looker, alright—a _vision_ in a charcoal-gray dress that hugged her waist and the curve of her hips in all the right ways. The scarf around her neck, tucked into the front of her gown, seemed a little out’a place; but the fine fabric, paired with the long black gloves and the wide-brimmed flop hat, made her look a touch more elegant than saucy—but _only_ a touch. Couldn’t really see her face behind it all, but he didn’t really need to t’know this wouldn’t be one’a his normal clients.

Peter tossed the file into a drawer and stood, wipin’ his hands on his vest. “Afternoon, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

She rested one gloved hand on her hip, leaning back and angling her head to check that O’Leary was retreating back down the hall and out’a eavesdroppin’ range, saying, “Actually, it’s more what _I_ can do for _you_.”

He knew that voice.

Oh.

_Damn._

She turned her head, lifted her chin so he could see her face. From under that hat, Maya smirked at him, her full lips painted black in a way that demanded his full attention.

The dress sure was something, and it sure got her in the door and upstairs to the _Bugle_ without question, but the lipstick? No one else in this dimension could see her face without a little screamin’, at the least. Had she worn it just for _him?_

“Hey, Pete. You miss me?”

“ _Maya_.” He snapped his open mouth shut, swallowed hard and smoothed back his hair, gestured her inside. “I, uh... Wasn’t expectin’ ya t’show up _here_. How’d you find me?”

“I’m good at my job,” she said with a shrug. She let the door shut behind her and pulled the blinds closed, took her hat off with a bit of a flourish, and hung it on the coat rack next to his. “And you’re in the directory.”

“Right,” he grunted, then cleared his throat. “You, uh... Y’clean up well, doll.”

“Thanks, big guy,” she said with a smile, strutting forward with a swing of the leather briefcase in her hand, going to settle into the chair across the desk from his. “I’m here on business, after all; figured I might as well look the part.”

“That a fact?” he asked, sitting down as well.

“Mm-hm.” She reached inside the case and retrieved a thick stack of papers. “Got that contract I promised you, just needs your John Hancock.”

“You can’t be _serious_ ,” he breathed, taking it from her hands—it felt _heavy_. “I gotta sign this whole thing?”

She shrugged. “Ideally, yes. But like I said, you can always shop it around to a couple lawyers. I can leave it with you, come back in a few days—”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly judgin’ by the way her brow quirked up in surprise. But he wasn’t about to send her packing now, not when she’d just got here, not when he’d been drivin’ himself up a wall waitin’ on her to come. “No, we don’t gotta do all that. Think you can give me the low down?”

She cocked her head to the side, a smirk tugging at the corner’a those painted lips. “I _highly recommend_ you read the contract in its entirety, but I’m glad to give you the highlights.”

Dutifully, Peter bowed his head and pretended to skim through the pages, though his eyes kept casting glances toward her and that little gray dress, more or less without his say-so, as she went on with what seemed to be a practiced speech.

“Overall, you and I are agreeing to enter into a partnership, working together to protect your dimension from any potential harm the artifact might do. You’re free to go on living your life as though nothing has changed, though I’ll be making regular visits to assess your temporal and spatial stability. I’ll make myself known during this time, at least to start, though it’s important to stress that I’ll be a guest, here. If you, at any time, decide you no longer wish to have direct contact with me, you’ll be given a device to notify my boss, and my access will be revoked.”

“Fat chance’a that,” he snorted.

She shrugged and shifted in the seat, and he couldn’t help but watch the movement of her legs as she crossed one over the other, settling her hands in her lap. “I hope it doesn’t, but things do happen. This contract is to benefit both of us, but if I decide I don’t want to see you, I can just stop visiting while you’re around or ask that the case be reassigned. This way, you get the same freedom to opt out. We’ll be partners in this; that doesn’t mean we have to be miserable, if things don’t work out.”

He nodded slowly, flipped through a few more pages. “What’s this bit here about surveillance? Thought the whole point’a this was so you wouldn’t be spyin’ on me?”

“Which is why you should _read_ the contract,” she teased. “The dimension as a whole will be under surveillance, not you specifically. My supervisor, Arroyo Domiviic—that’s their signature on pages 3 through 27, subfield B—will receive notification at the first sign of any dimensional warping, slipping, spillage, oozing, bloating—”

“Those _can’t_ be the actual words for it.”

“Maybe not, but you get the picture. Any abnormality, and I’ll be dispatched immediately to investigate, even if it means pulling me out of another active case. As someone who’s previously jumped to another dimension and acquired an artifact, you also get that special notation on pages 22 through 27, which states that I can follow along if you happen to take another field trip, to make sure you make it home safe and without any more souvenirs.”

“So, you’ll be my backup?”

“More like a tail, if I’m honest,” she said with another shrug. “But it does give me a combat, medical, and transport dispensation, if it looks like you might not make it. Still, I would strongly advise against needing it; your body isn’t designed for dimensional travel, and the more you do it, the less stable you’ll become.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t have any trouble when you pulled me out t’your place, though. At least, not except the trip itself.”

“Sure, but my place doesn’t really exist. It’s not a _conflicting_ dimension because it isn’t a dimension at all; it’s...something else. If you start to come apart at the seams, the best I can do is try to get you back here and hope you stick together.”

“Gotta admit, that don’t sound great.”

“It really isn’t,” she said softly, staring past him and out his window, a faraway look in her eye.

“You’ve...seen that happen before?”

She blinked, turning her head and settling her gaze on him for a long moment before dropping to her lap. “A few times. I’d rather not watch it happen to you, okay?”

He nodded his head even though he knew she couldn’t see him, said, “Okay,” and something about it felt more solemn, more potent, more binding than the fifty-some pages of contract on the desk in front of him. “So, where do I sign?”

“Have you read it all?”

Peter rolled his eyes, flipped to a random page, and quoted, “‘ _We, the undersigned, will not discharge nor suffer to be discharged any serviceable degree of emission from the Artifact (Exhibit A-1a) into any watercourse or drain or sewage system_ ’—I am _not_ gonna read all this, Maya. Am I missing anything important?”

She bit her lip, clearly trying hard not to laugh. “Just gonna sign this thing on nothing but my word? You really trust me like that?”

“You know I do.”

The mirth left her expression, the almost-smile tugging at her lips changing curiously into something soft and earnest. She slid forward in the chair and reached out, rapping a finger against the ream of paper. “Initial here, and sign at the bottom beside my name, for each page.”

“ _Each?_ ” he echoed, and groaned at her nod. “Fine, but I’ll be at it a minute. It might not be hot, but there’s coffee in the carafe, help yourself.”

She snorted a laugh, but he heard her get up and walk over to the low cabinet and pour herself a cup. “Mm, yeah, not hot,” she muttered. “But it ain’t half bad. You want some more?”

He flashed a grateful smile and lifted his mug her way, watched her top it off with a soft but genuine, “Thanks, doll,” before returning to the mountain of papers. After the first few pages, he got a pretty good rhythm going. He initialed, signed, flipped, initialed, signed, and flipped, over and over and over again.

But his attention was mostly focused on the rustle of Maya’s skirts and the click of her heels against the linoleum as she moved about the office, humming a soft tune he didn’t recognize as she poked around his things, punctuated occasionally by short sips of her coffee. He heard her slide open one of the filing cabinets and thumb through a few of his case notes, something he would never let anyone else do, certainly not a dame; but she’d already seen the worst he had to offer in his desk back home, and had come back for more. Anyhow, by the time he wrapped up this paperwork, there wouldn’t be any other secrets he needed to keep from her.

The thought made him pause on that last page, pen hovering just above the line.

No more secrets. He wouldn’t have to hand it over, but he’d have to tell her how he’d got it, which meant he’d have to tell her all about the time he’d spent in that other New York and the folks he’d met there. He hadn’t told _anyone_ , hadn’t known of anyone he _could_ tell without them immediately taking his measurements for a cozy new straitjacket.

He grabbed his mug and took a swallow of lukewarm coffee to give himself a moment’s distraction. It tasted the same as it always did.

But the color was wrong. He knew that, now. It shouldn’t be this flat black, it should be the deep, swirling color of her eyes, shining up at him and close to tears in her warm, bright kitchen as she admitted, “ _I’ve never been able to tell this to someone who didn’t already know the story_.”

He knocked the coffee back, signed his name, and said, “Okay.”

“Okay?” she echoed, spinning on her heel to face him. “You’re done already?”

“I’m done _finally_ ,” he clarified, stacking all the pages together again and tapping the bottom edge on his desk to keep ‘em straight.

Maya moved back to her chair and set her coffee down. With a glance back at the closed door and blinds, she started to tug off those long gloves; they came up to her elbows, overlapped the sleeves of her dress by a few inches, and the sight of the skin of her hands and forearms was a little disorienting, even as they moved as any hands and arms should do. She reached back inside the briefcase and pulled out a long, flat piece of metal. Taking the contract from his hands, she clipped the metal around the top edge with two clicks; then, holding the metal-capped end in one hand, she moved the other along the bottom edge in one quick arc, like running backwards through a flipbook, and then—

And then the hand that should’a been empty was _holding_ something: a pane of what looked like dark, opaque glass, about the size and shape of a sheet of paper.

Peter sucked in a breath, sitting up straighter in his chair. That was... He’d seen her do some strange things before, but that was _impossible_. “I... You said you’re _not_ magic.”

She met his eye for a quick, hot moment, the sudden memory of what they’d almost done, almost shared, rearing up in the forefront of his mind at the echo of the line he’d used, right off the cobb. He’d spent the past two weeks doin’ his damnedest not to think about it; but he’d for sure been about to kiss her, and she’d been about to let him, and his mind had already started to consider what else she might let him do and whether she’d rather have him carry her to the bed or just stay there and mess up the fresh-cleaned couch, when they’d been interrupted by that knock on the door.

But she dropped her gaze quickly, cheeks darkening in that pretty way, and the moment almost passed. “ _I’m_ not,” she reassured, sliding the pane of glass into her briefcase and unclipping the contract, which she handed back to him. “The paper can self-replicate, but only when it’s been activated with this tool. The original’s all yours, but if you need to make a copy when I’m not around, you’ll have to get it the hard way.”

“Right,” he muttered absently, sliding the pages into a random desk drawer and trying not to think of the way her waist had felt between his hands or how she’d shivered when he touched her. “So, uh... What d’we do now?”

She sat back in the chair, folding her hands primly in her lap; but the intensity of her gaze as she managed to look at him again belied the calm of her posture. “ _Now_ ,” she started, lips curling like she was trying to suppress a grin, “you let me take a gander at your relic, so I can take some baseline readings.”

It was his turn to look away from her, frowning. He’d wanted to see her again, had even been willing to agree to all this so he’d keep having reasons to do so. But the thought of letting anyone else see it, even _her_ , when he hadn’t even told Aunt May...

But then he remembered the letter in his pocket, the pictures secure in his safe back home. She’d kept her word; the least he could do was the same.

With a sigh, he twisted around, slipping a hand inside the trench coat hanging off the back of his chair, reaching for the hidden pocket he’d made in the lining. His fingers closed around the relic, and he tugged it free, straightened, and rested it on the middle of his desk where she could see it.

For a long time, they sat in silence—Maya staring at the thing with a blank expression, Peter staring at her and waiting to see what she said.

“It’s...a Rubik’s cube,” she finally murmured, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

“I guess so,” he agreed.

She reached out, slowly, glancing at him once to make sure he wasn’t gonna bite her hand off for touchin’ it or somethin’, then picked it up and held it in front of her face. “You...traveled to another dimension...and you came back with... _a_ _Rubik’s cube_.”

“...Yeah.”

“... _Huh_.” She met his eye again, frowning like she thought he might be pulling her leg; but the colors, here in his gray office, were too obviously, starkly different to have ever been made anywhere around here. Shaking her head, she turned away and reached inside the briefcase again for something that looked like a pen—but when she held it up to the cube, it started to beep and click and whir in a way no pen ever had. She turned the cube this way and that, waving the pen around every edge and corner, like she was weaving some kind’a invisible web all ‘round it.

“Did I, uh... Did I get it right?”

“Huh? What d’you mean?”

He gestured vaguely at the cube. “It was all jumbled up when I got it. Did I...fix it?”

Maya blinked and frowned, stopping what she was doing to look at him, then back at the cube, then back at him. “It’s...perfect. _You_ did this?”

“I guess so,” he answered with a shrug, trying not to feel too pleased with himself. _Perfect_ , she’d said.

“Huh.” She stared at him another moment, then blinked and turned back to the pen, reading the side of it like a thermometer, before nodding and slipping it away again into the briefcase. When she turned back to him, it was with a smile. “Want me to mess it up again for you?”

“ _What?_ ” he spluttered, fighting the urge to snatch the cube back from her. “Why would you do that?”

She laughed, but not unkindly, and handed it over to him like she understood the strange, sharp spike of protectiveness she’d sparked in him. “That’s the whole point. It’s supposed to test your patience, your memory, your...puzzle-solving skills, I guess. It comes messed up, and you gotta solve it, and then you mess it up again to see if you can solve it again.”

“What, like Sisyphus?”

She snorted a laugh. “What’d you say you’re studying, again? Yeah, I guess you could look at it like that. But you did it once all on your own, right? Bet you could do it faster the second time around, and I’ll be coming back to visit soon. I could check your progress. Only if you want to, though. If not, feel free to continue basking in the knowledge that you did it. It really is quite the feat.”

He looked down at the puzzle in his hands, then back to her. She was biting her lip again, watching him carefully, but seemed content to wait for his answer, willing to give him the time to consider her offer. He knew it was a toy, knew it was a silly thing to have made her do all this for, but she seemed to recognize that it was important to him all the same. And, yeah, it _had_ felt good to work on the cube. Felt good to have figured it out, sure, especially with the confirmation that he’d done it right; but it seemed silly to let it just sit in his pocket forever, now that he knew there was an alternative option.

“Yeah, alright,” he said, holding it out to her.

Maya grinned broadly, taking it back eagerly. It looked at home between her richly-colored hands in a way it never had in his.

“Honestly, I’ve never been any good at these things,” she admitted, her grin turning a little sheepish, “so I should be great at making it worse! You wanna tell me how you traveled to another dimension just to make off with a Rubik’s Cube, while I work on this?”

“I didn’t go _just_ for that.”

She laughed, then, more genuine and less teasing, sounding so much more like the gal he’d... The gal he’d...

The gal he’d _gotten to know_ (because even in his own thoughts, he wouldn’t admit it’d been anything more than that), there in her kitchen in the house between worlds. She sounded more like herself—or, at least, like the version of herself he’d met that ridiculous, impossible day—than she had the whole time she’d been in his office.

...So he told her everything. Told her about the day something weird happened to him—and weird things happen to him a _lot_ , but this was _awful weird_. Told her how he shot out into another dimension; a loud, incomprehensible, _colorful_ dimension, way off in the far future. How the building where his apartment was didn’t exist anymore, and the walls of his office had been torn down and turned into something called a “tech start-up”. How, running out of options, he ended up in the one other place he knew, one that _was_ still there: his Aunt May’s place, out in Queens.

Only it wasn’t _his_ Aunt May. And he wasn’t _her_ Peter, and his showing up like that so soon after her Peter’s murder looking like (in her words) "death warmed over" hadn’t been...ideal for either of ‘em. But she’d let him stay for the night, hidden away in some kind’a automated bunker below the house, and had introduced him when a couple more Spider-folks turned up.

And then when a few _more_ Spider-folks showed up after them, including a kid named Miles, who actually belonged there.

He told her about how strange it’d been, talking to another guy named Peter who had his same face but... _different_ ; how he’d met a talking _pig_ that understood him better than anyone in his world ever had; how there’d been a gal named Gwen, barely older than Miles, who knew full well what this life was like and even managed to teach this old dog a couple’a new tricks. He told her about how they tracked down Kingpin, and Peni had made ‘em a new gizmo to shut down the bigger gizmo, and Miles... Miles got them all back home, safe and sound.

And, yeah. He’d sort’a taken the cube thing with him. They’d sort’a given it to him in the first place, though, so it wasn’t _really_ stealing. And he knew it was silly, knew it was just a toy... But he wouldn’t be giving it up, not even to her, because it was all he had to remember that the whole thing had all been real, that he _wasn’t the only one_.

And when he finished telling her all’a that, he looked up, surprised to find her cradling the cube in both hands, as mixed up as when he’d first seen it, and staring at the thing with tears in her pretty eyes.

“...I don’t think it’s silly,” she eventually said, her voice soft. “I mean... If I knew there was another me out there somewhere, and I got to meet her... Well, I’d wanna hold onto a piece of that, too.”

 _Oh._ He hadn’t thought about it like that.

He’d thought it was funny they got on so well, so fast, given how vastly different their lives looked on the surface. But the loneliness of being the only thing like you anywhere around... Yeah, he guessed that was something they did have in common, after all.

“I-is there not?” he asked dumbly, tryin’ to wrap his mind around this revelation. “Another you, I mean. There’s a lotta worlds out there, right?”

She shrugged, and met his eyes with a real soft smile. “ _Nah_. I mean, I’m sure there’s some other gal out there with...two different kinds’a parents who she kind’a resents, and who...dreams about other worlds. Hell, I’ve never met any of the other Auts, and I always thought... It’s silly, but I always thought they might all just be different versions of me, maybe. That maybe being _me_ is what makes a person an Aut, somehow. But if that’s true, if another me is out there somewhere, I’ve never seen ‘em.” Another shrug, another smile. She twirled the cube between her fingers once, then set it back down on his desk and held her hand out to him.

“Alright, Peter Parker,” she said, as he shook her hand slowly. “You’ve got yourself an Accord. I’ll be glad to be your Maintainer, and help you keep this relic safe.”

He laughed, forced himself to release her hand, reluctant as he was to do so. “Yeah, sure. Sounds swell.”

She smiled and stood, starting to slide those gloves back on. “I’ll plan to visit again in a couple weeks, to check on the relic and make sure you’re doing alright. That should be a good schedule to start with, but we can always change it up if it seems like I should stop by more or less often. Sound good?”

“I, uh... You’re leavin’ already?” he asked, rising to his feet.

“I need to get this contract stamped and filed, and document those initial readings,” she said, bending to pick up her briefcase. But then she hesitated, looking up at him with a smirk. “I could stick around a _little_ longer, if there was something you had in mind?”

He grinned, scooped his coat off the back of the chair and threw it on. “C’mon,” he said, grabbing the cube and shoving it back in its pocket. “There’s a new soda shop I’ve been meanin’ to try, and you still owe me that egg cream.”

She moved to the coat rack and grabbed her hat, eyeing him sardonically with one eyebrow raised. “You sure it’s safe? ‘Cause these shoes weren’t made for fighting Nazis in, and I do _not_ feel like getting shot again today.”

“It’ll be _fine_ ,” he assured her. “No one’s even tryin’ to kill me, lately. Scout’s honor.”

“ _You_ were a boy scout?”

“Nah,” he shrugged. “But I was real good at outrunning the bigger kids on my street, and I got a lot’a practice playin' with matches.”

She laughed, that full, genuine laugh’a hers that made him feel like he had gelatin for brains, and said, “I just bet you did. C’mere.”

He did as she asked, watching as she pulled one last thing, some kind’a tie pin, out of the briefcase.

“If something happens,” she said, holding it up so he could see, “and you decide you don’t wanna see me, or the relic starts doing something weird, or you get in a real tight spot, or...or _whatever_ , you take this and snap it in half. That’ll let Domiviic know to get down here pronto, and they’ll do what they can to help you. Okay?”

“Okay.” Peter took it solemnly, grabbed his hat off the rack and pinned it carefully to the hat band, thinking that’d be the one place he’d be sure not to lose it. He smoothed his hair back, put the hat on, and looked down at her. “How do I look?”

She grinned. “Like a million bucks. Now, let’s get a move on. I could really use that drink.”

“You and me both,” he told her, swinging the door open, glad to have her at his side again as they made their way through the hall and down the stairs and out into the bright, gray light’a day. And when she slipped her hand into his, to keep from getting separated in the busy 4 o’clock crowd, he knew he would never be using that pin, would never once even think of snapping it in half and asking her not to come back. Not ever.


	8. Stormy Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I went to bed late last night thinking, "Oh, I'll just wake up early tomorrow and finish up that last transition I'm stuck on real quick!" And now here I am, having almost entirely rewritten 14 pages in 12 hours and questioning all my life choices.
> 
> Anyway, heads up that this is written in a different verb tense than the rest of the story, which I hate doing but I always find it easier to write scenes like this in present, and I love you all but I'm not about to go and rewrite this whole thing ( _again_ ) to make it consistent. I do hope the shift isn't too jarring, though.
> 
> Also you might've noticed that there's been an update to the rating on this story; I wasn't expecting to get quite so, uh... _thorough_ with this chapter, but what can I say? Everyone's a lil extra horny in quarantine, and I've been feeling particularly inspired lately, plans change. This kind of writing is super not my forte, though, so any and all feedback is most welcome. It'll probably be quite a while before I get around to finishing up the epilogue, but it should be back to mostly the same level of wholesome as the rest has been; so if this isn't your thing, I think the shift into the steamy stuff is obvious and there isn't much plot going on there, so feel free to skip it and you won't miss out on anything.
> 
> I think that's all I have for now! In honor of today's events, here's everyone's favorite Antifa Spider-Man getting the opportunity to celebrate, too. Enjoy ;)

She jumps into her usual alley—once for a split-second, just to be sure, then again when she knows the coast is clear—and makes her way out to the street. The tension of her first visit is nowhere to be felt, the rain driving all but the most determined or desperate indoors. It’s still falling softly for now, but there’s electricity in the air, a rumble of thunder, off in the distance but drawing near. Maya hurries her steps.

There’s no need to bribe the doorman this time, dressed as she is. All she has to do is angle her head so the flop hat shadows her face, the silk scarf fluttering at her neck. She isn’t fashionably figured for this time period, too pear-shaped to ever have made a convincing former flapper (and she’ll be _damned_ before she ever squeezes her ass into a period-correct girdle), but the way the wrap dress ties at the waist gives her something close to the right silhouette, and the raincoat obscures the rest. The fabric looks fine enough to make her seem like she could live in a place like this, or could know someone who does. So the door is held for her, and the man greets her warmly, lets her hurry in out of the now-pouring rain and over to the stairwell without question.

She doesn’t have to dress like this, to perform this charade. Peter’s seen her in her pj’s, in her _underwear_ ; she’s sure it doesn’t matter to him how she’s dressed, and technically she doesn’t even need to be seen by him in the first place. She could jump right into his apartment, take her readings, assess the relic, and jump right back out.

She’s never done that, though. Not here. Not with him.

She has to admit, she’s enjoyed playing tourist in this dimension. It isn’t the sort of world she prefers, not by a long shot. The lack of color still takes some getting used to, no matter how regular her visits have become, and if she isn’t careful she’ll stick out like a sore thumb. It isn't an easy place, with plenty of its own horrors even without the looming threat of the war to come. But there’s a...simplicity to it, in a way. Such hard lives people live here, trying to carve out a little goodness for themselves, and she knows they’re only going to get harder.

Maybe it’s the hardness that makes the goodness feel so worthwhile.

She enjoys Peter’s company, sure—she knew that early on. But she _cherishes_ the time she’s spent with him here, sipping egg creams at his new favorite soda shop, or going to see a talkie so she can sit in the dark and not worry about being seen, or just wandering through Central Park and seeing him marvel at the peace and quiet they find there. Having to keep her skin obscured seems a small price to pay for such delights, and Peter seems as struck by the novelty of it as she is. How precious is this chance to do _normal things_ together, without having to feign any normality of their own, without having to pretend to be people they’re not—at least, not to each other.

She knocks on his door, puts her ear against the wood to listen. It’s a mostly-unnecessary habit; she knows as well as anyone how quietly he moves, how hard he has to focus to make his footsteps produce any noise at all. But she doesn’t hear anything, not even his voice calling out to ask who’s there.

There’s no need to pick the lock anymore, since he gave her a key—said he knew she didn’t really need it, but he’d had the spare since he moved in and didn’t know anyone else to give it to, so it might as well go to her. But he also didn’t meet her eye while he said it, in that shy way he got sometimes, whenever what he said meant more than he was saying. It’s become one of the reasons she performs this charade, and dresses like this, and comes in off the street instead of directly into his room. It means something to him, and that’s enough to make it worth it for her. She likes to use the key, likes him to know she uses it.

She tells herself it’s just the strangeness of doing so that attracts her; there is a key that goes to the door of her home, but she’s never needed to use it, wouldn’t know where it was even if she wanted to. She tells herself it doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.

It only takes an instant to confirm that he isn’t home. The bathroom door is open, he isn't on the ceiling, and otherwise there isn’t anywhere in the studio for him to hide. The windows are all closed, but one isn’t latched—Peter Parker isn’t home; _Spider-Man_ has gone out.

Maya sighs, kicking off her shoes by the door and slipping out of her coat and scarf, contenting herself to wait. It isn’t uncommon for her outings with Peter to get cut short by the sound of screams and gunfire. He has a responsibility to this city, even if it rarely thanks him for it, and she would never want to prevent him from doing what he can to help people.

He always tells her she should leave, should go home and stay safe, while he swaps out his glasses for the mask he keeps in a pocket and prepares to swing away and save the day. Usually, she listens. In all the time that’s passed, Domiviic still hasn’t stopped reprimanding her for “interfering” that first time she was here, and she doesn’t want to push her luck.

...But she always comes back. He never made her promise not to, and she’s careful to stay out of sight, popping in and out just long enough to make sure he’s safe. Spider-Man can take care of himself, with or without her interference; she knows this, she trusts him, but she's also never been much good at sitting idle while people are in danger. It's what makes a good Maintainer, but it's one reason they're discouraged from spending too much time on a job, so easy to get caught up in everyone else's problems.

Still, she can't keep from doing _something_ , so long as she's here.

She knows he’s noticed—the disappearing guns and knives; the hostages’ ropes that manage to untie themselves; that one time his pistol was definitely kicked off the dock and into the water with a splash, but then was suddenly within his reach when he needed it. Still, he’s never said anything, never asked, and as fond as she is of the guy she isn’t in the habit of offering up that kind of information unprompted.

With a sigh, she steps over to the unlocked window. The view isn’t much, but the windows themselves are wonderful in a place like this, stretching from hip-height nearly to the ceiling. It’s not a particularly comfy seat, but if she leans her back against one side of the frame and presses her feet against the other, she can balance herself on the sill and listen to the sounds of the city below, the rain pinging off the fire escape and rapping against the glass, falling even harder now than when she’d been out in it.

This, too, is a wonder. She doesn’t mind that there’s no weather in the void, that her home is always precisely as warm or cool as she wants it to be. It’s consistent and comfortable, and she’s seen enough of the damage nature can do to know she has neither right nor reason to complain. But...she’s missed the sound of rain.

She’s about one warm blanket away from dozing off right there—fighting the temptation to go grab the quilt off Peter’s bed—when a man falls from the sky.

It’s the noise that worries her, even before her mind can process his labored movements, the way he slumps and stumbles. Peter’s usually quieter, more graceful than this. There’s something not right about the way he clambers onto the fire escape, and it has her jumping to her feet and heaving the window open in an instant.

“What _happened?_ ”

He eases his legs through the opening and flops to a seat on the ledge she’s just vacated, booted feet thumping against the floor beneath. He looks crumpled, shoulders sagging, hat angled deeply to one side. When he lifts his head to look at her, she sees the shattered lens of his goggles, one tired, gray eye peeking out through the cracks.

"Hey, doll," he says, his voice as much a groan as a greeting. "You’re a sight for sore eyes."

It's been about two weeks for him since she was last here. About that long for her, too—she's tried to stick to a similar day/night cycle to his dimension's, to time her visits according to how much time seems to have passed for her. It's easier to keep from getting tangled in the timeline that way, and Rudy’s chronometer had been easy enough to adjust, and Domi keeps commending her for her dedication to this case. She hasn't been brave enough to admit to them just how selfish she really is.

She raises a hand, brushes her fingers against his cheek, her thumb against the edge of the lens, feels him flinch beneath her light touch. “What happened?” she asks again, softer this time.

“I’m alright,” he sighs, heaving himself up from the sill, brushing past her with two staggering steps. “There’s a new fella in town. Stronger than I expected, but I’ll be alright.”

She doesn’t see any blood on his clothes as he takes off his coat and lays it on the radiator to dry—but she’s seen his blood before, knows it’s so dark she might just not be able to tell. “I’ll go get my bag,” she tells him, running a hand through her hair.

“You ain’t gotta—” he starts, but she’s already jumping.

* * *

When Maya jumps back a minute later, Peter's standing by the kitchenette, stripping off his vest with an annoyed (and maybe pained) grunt. Concerned as she is about him, she almost can't appreciate the way his rain-soaked sweater clings to the hard edges of his muscled chest and arms. Almost. The leather vest falls to the floor with a wet slap, and he leaves it there, looks up and spots her frowning at him, and sighs. He walks past her with an audible limp, a bottle in one hand, two coffee mugs in the other.

Even with the end of prohibition, she knows he doesn’t drink much—says it never really does much for him, that the quantity he has to consume just to get tipsy makes it too expensive for too little reward. The fact that he’s pouring one now, that he has this bottle to begin with, is worrying.

He slumps onto the couch, pours what smells like gin into the second mug, and holds it out to her.

She does take it, takes a swallow, hisses at the burn as it goes down. "You cook this in the bathtub yourself?"

"Hilarious, you are," he mutters, setting the bottle aside and taking up his own mug. He tries to pull his mask up, can't even get it above his jaw before hissing in pain, and she spots the dark smear of blood against his pale neck.

"Fuck," she gasps, throws her drink back and sets the mug on the table, tosses her bag onto the couch beside him. "Let me get it."

She moves without thinking, hiking her skirt up and settling herself in his lap, straddling his legs. She thinks she hears a small gasp of surprise, but he lets her do it, doesn't shrink back or lift her off him like she knows he could do so easily. His clothes are still wet, but his body is so warm, radiating into hers. The eye she can see behind the broken lens is wide; she both feels and hears the hitch in his breath as she grips the edge of the mask with both hands, but he angles his head back and lets her roll the fabric up, as gingerly as she can manage.

“There’s glass in your cheek,” she tells him, moving slowly, careful to keep from letting the mask snag on it.

“Yeah, I figured,” he sighs.

She sucks her teeth. “What, you just saving it for later?” she asks. She rolls it up to his brow; both eyes are free now, but he seems determined not to look at her. With an annoyed huff, she tugs the mask free and sets it aside, making sure the broken lens is safely folded within the fabric.

“I’ll be fine, Maya.” His voice is soft. He sounds so tired. “I heal fast.”

“Right,” she says, smoothing back his mussed hair, then dragging the pad of her thumb along the starburst scar just above his temple. “So you just don’t bother treating any wounds you get and end up with all these scars, huh?”

His slate-gray eyes meet hers for a fleeting moment, then dart away again. “Won’t no one be upset if I’m a little less handsome,” he grumbles.

“That’s _not_ what they do,” she blurts, wishing the words back inside her dumb mouth even as she’s saying them. She’s no lightweight, either, so she can’t even blame the slug of gin for it. She turns to her med bag before he can meet her eye again, pretending to be looking for her tweezers though she knows exactly where everything is in there. “You gotta take care of yourself,” she says, forcing her tone to stay light.

He _is_ staring at her when she turns back, lifting his drink to his lips. She waits for him to take a sip, then eases the mug from his hand.

“You can have the rest when I know you’re not concussed,” she scolds.

He tries to scowl, but the movement causes another drop of blood to bead up under the glass and roll down his chin. “I’m...probably not,” he grumbles.

She puts her hand on his unmarred cheek, hooks her thumb under his jaw to hold him in place, ignores the feeling of his warm skin and coarse stubble beneath her touch, and moves in with the tweezers. “That’s encouraging.”

The first sliver comes free with ease, though it’s dug in deeper than it seemed. Still, _she_ winces more than he does. She needs something to put it in, leans back to grab her empty mug off the table—and sucks in a breath as Peter grabs her waist, holding her steady.

She fumbles with the mug for a second, already feeling flushed by the time she turns back around and drops the shard of glass inside. His hands drift down her body, coming to rest at her hips, his arms settling along the top of her thighs. Maya bites her lip, wishing such an innocuous touch wasn't enough to make her heart drum so insistently against her rib cage.

"What were you doin' by the window?" His voice is soft as she sets the mug down on the couch cushion beside her leg and grabs his face again.

"Just...listening to the rain," she admits, a little absently, trying to focus and keep her hands steady, easing another sliver free. "I’ve missed the way it sounds."

A corner of his mouth twitches up ruefully. "It always rains 'round here."

"I know. It's nice. Probably not to live with, but...” She shakes her head, taps the glass into the mug. “When I was little and couldn't sleep, mom used to move the house until we found some rain. The noise always helped me nod off."

"Oh." Peter's eyes are fixed on her, one of his thumbs starting to rub soothing—but distracting—circles against her hipbone. "S'posed to rain all night."

“That so?”

He's silent for a moment, his hands and body going still in the way he gets when he's weighing his options, considering what to say. Usually, she talks enough for the both of them, though sometimes she shows up to find him feeling downright chatty, too. It's hard to tell what kind'a night this'll be, so she doesn't pry, just waits him out and keeps her hands busy while he thinks.

“You could... _stay_ tonight. If ya want.”

She bites her lip again, focusing on getting the last piece of glass out of his cheek so she doesn’t have to meet his gaze. Wasn't sure what she'd expected, but this was _definitely_ not it. "...That so?" she eventually repeats, dropping the shard into the mug and reaching for her bag.

"You're always welcome here," he says, voice low. "You know that."

She does. It’s why she's never stayed overnight, never trusted herself to stick around that long, certain she'd just end up doing or saying something that would ruin whatever this was between them. He'd been the one to give her a key, and it had been at his request that she'd even gotten certified to keep coming back here in the first place. But the contract they'd both signed had been comprehensive and specific; she was a guest in his dimension, and she would not force her presence on him— _could not_ do so if he decided he didn't want to see her anymore. The absolute last thing she wants to do is overstay that welcome.

Though, if she’s honest, the thought of a good night’s sleep certainly has its appeal. Things have mostly calmed down these past few months, but there’s still a bit of fallout from the collision event that needs to be cleaned up. Her last job had been...rough, to say the least: an emergency call-out, Rescue and Restoration, a pair of fire hydrants that’d swapped dimensions and no one had noticed until one was needed and the firefighters’ hoses hadn’t fit.

She’d spent an exhausting night jumping into the apartment building, finding people who’d gotten trapped or stranded, helping them through the smoke and heat to fresh air, then jumping back in again. Domiviic and some of the other handlers had posed as government agents, explaining away the discrepancy with legal jargon and red tape, and Maya’d had to wait even longer for the flames to die down and the streets to clear of spectators so she could train a couple of the new recruits on how to restore the hydrants to their home dimensions.

Between the adrenaline and the paperwork and the thought of the people she hadn’t been fast enough to save, she hasn’t gotten much of anything like rest for a few days. She’d been looking forward to spending time with Peter tonight and getting a chance to unwind. He’s clearly in no shape to go out, but maybe a quiet night in would be even better. And if he’s offering...

She’s definitely been quiet too long, thinking it over. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t pry either, evidently content to just sit back and watch whatever face journey she’s just taken, his gaze seeming both watchful and patient. It’s an offer, nothing more. She doesn’t know quite how to answer just yet, but he isn’t demanding one.

More than any promise of white noise or time to sleep or anything else, it’s this lack of expectation, the comfort of knowing he’ll accept her choice whatever it is, that makes her want to stay. But it also feels deeply intimate, to sleep somewhere other than her own bed, her own house, and somehow just trust that she’ll be safe there. Peter would never let anything happen to her, she knows that as well as she knows she’d never let something happen to him; but she’s been taking care of herself on her own for so long, she doesn’t know if she remembers how to trust someone else to do it.

She sighs and grabs a sterile cloth from her bag, tears the package open and mutters a soft, “Maybe.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but instead just sucks in a breath when she slides a hand to the back of his head, holding him steady. She lifts the cloth to his neck and starts wiping away the blood, working her way up the long column of his throat and over the ridge of his jaw and along the plane of his cheek. His hair is so soft beneath her fingers, his skin so deliciously warm. Maybe she doesn’t really have to be quite so thorough as this, but she knows it’s a rare thing for Peter Parker to let someone else take care of him, too, and for now she’s gonna let herself relish this even if she doesn’t want to examine why it thrills her so deeply.

A part of her knows what she’ll find, if she questions herself; but it also knows that if she acknowledges it, she’ll feel compelled to tell him, and she’ll make a fool of herself and he won’t want to see her again. Much less painful to lie to herself than to lose this, and she can at least enjoy the pleasure while it’s here.

“You look...awful pretty tonight,” he tells her, sliding his hands down to her thighs, fingers toying with the hem of her skirt in a way that makes her breath stutter.

She squawks a laugh, jarred from her thoughts, swinging from brooding to flustered in no time at all. “You sure you’re not concussed?”

“I’m serious,” he says firmly. “I mean, you’re always a knockout. But y’look swell in a dress. Wish I’d known y’were coming. Woulda stayed home and took ya out dancing, instead of running out to get my ass kicked. Woulda liked t’show ya off.”

Maya crumples up the cloth and stuffs it down in the mug with the glass, feeling her face grow hotter with every word. She’s never been any good with compliments, never knows what to say in response, usually just tries to deflect with humor. But she doesn’t want to deflect this—hell, she wants to _bask_ in it, to just sit quietly for a while with nothing but the sound of the rain against the window and the knowledge that he thinks she’s worth showing off, that he’d like to be the one to do so.

She keeps her eyes averted while she reaches in her bag again, retrieving the small round tin of salve and rubbing it between her hands. “I...don’t know how to dance,” she finally admits, just for something to say, anything to fill the silence between them.

“I bet you’re a real quick study,” he says.

She casts a swift, furtive glance his way, but he isn't smirking, isn't laughing at her, his gray eyes so intent on her that she has to look away.

He's a surprisingly tactile guy, given...well, everything else about him. True, she’s never sat in his _lap_ before; but he likes to hold her hand while they're out walking, slips an arm around her at the movies and lets her rest her head on his shoulder, grabs her waist and moves her outta danger when they're getting shot at, that sort'a thing. And she certainly hasn't forgotten the way he'd almost kissed her and how bad she'd wanted it and how wrecked she'd felt at the sound of Domi's voice through the door. In the time since, she's definitely flirted with him and sometimes she thinks he's flirted back, and he tends to find a way to get his hands on her every time she visits and she certainly never stops him from doing so. But he hasn’t tried to kiss her again, and she’s made her peace with the knowledge that that meant he didn’t want to anymore.

She hasn't felt wanted in a long time, and she doesn't want to delude herself, not when the result of being wrong here could mean that she loses the dearest friend she's made in longer than she cares to remember. But it certainly seems like... Well, it seems like he might...

She shakes her head, unscrewing the lid off the tin and pressing two fingers into the now-warm gel. "This is gonna feel... _weird_ ," is somehow the best warning she can come up with, before she reaches up and dabs it against one of the smaller cuts on his cheek, watching to make sure the nanobots will activate in this dimension and respond to his body chemistry.

“What—?” he starts to ask, and then flinches, head jerking a fraction away. She can’t hear the whir of the bots over the sound of the rain now rushing against the window, but she can see the wound starting to stitch itself back together. “Uh... Yeah, it sure does.”

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, lifting her fingers to smear a little more over the rest of the knicks and cuts. "It'll help, though. No new scars tonight, at least."

"Too bad," he breathes, his hands moving over her skirt, a light but insistent pressure that captivates her attention. "Wouldn't mind to have somethin' t'remember this by."

She swallows hard, twisting the lid back on the tin and carefully sliding it back into its spot in the bag, trying to think of something, _anything_ , to say to that. Her mind keeps coming up short tonight, though, and the best she can do is grab the Diagno-Stick from its pouch and tell him, "Look at me.”

His gray eyes are dark when he lifts them to hers, and she tries not to let him feel her shiver as she raises the tool, dials it in to check for concussion and fever. His focus is a little unsteady, but he isn't wearing his glasses. His pupils are large and dilated, but she's been sitting in his lap for quite a while, now, and even she can't deny that that has to have had _some_ effect on him. The heat alone, and the press of his long, strong legs into the softest parts of her body, and the way his thin waist fits so easily between her knees... Well, it’s certainly having an effect on _her_.

The Stick beeps once, then twice, then flashes green, and she sighs in relief. "You look good," she tells him, clears her throat, cursing her word choice as she leans over to put the tool back in the pouch.

He's still looking at her like that when she turns back, his big, warm hands pressing into her hips. It makes her breath hitch, but she makes no move to stand.

"How long we gonna keep playin' this game?" he asks, his voice, somehow, even lower and rougher than normal. "'Cause I don't mind it, but it's gettin' tougher and tougher to pretend I'm not dizzy with ya, Maya."

Oh.

... _Oh_.

She doesn't believe in destiny. But somehow it feels _inevitable_ , when her lips meet his.

If she had any intention behind it, if she wasn’t just desperately scraping her last two brain cells together like bits of flint and hoping to make sparks, she would’ve only meant it be a quick, exploratory kiss—a peace offering, of sorts, a way to confirm her suspicions without actually having to vocalize them and risk getting a No in return. But he responds immediately, kissing her back, eagerly if a little clumsily, hands squeezing her hips in a way that makes her gasp and squirm in his lap—and _that_ , in turn, makes his lips part in surprise, and she wastes no time in dipping her tongue between them. She runs a hand through his hair, pulling him closer, kissing him breathlessly, desperately.

A part of her knows she should take it easy, take this slowly, make sure this is really what he wanted and she isn’t just projecting, isn’t forcing something that isn’t really here. But Peter gives a long, low groan that she can feel vibrating in his chest, and one of his hands slips down the length of her thigh and back up, bunching up the fabric of her skirt, and she thinks for once she’s managed to find herself on the right track, here.

The feeling of soft, worn leather toying with the band of her stocking _is_ exquisite, but it isn’t what she needs right now. She breaks the kiss and pulls away just enough so she can look and see what she’s doing when she grabs his hand and starts tugging off his gloves.

“ _Maya_.” Her name from his lips is half growl and half groan, and if she wasn’t so bound and determined to feel his bare hands on her, she’d be glad to abandon the task and lose herself in another kiss.

The glove comes free and she tosses it away, reaching for the other one. He shifts beneath her, and she barely has time to appreciate the roll of his hips before his free hand slides back beneath her skirt, ghosting over the sheer fabric of her stocking. His bare palm spreads across her soft skin, long fingers gripping her tight, and they both moan at the sensation. It’s distracting enough to make her pause what she’s doing, to sag against him and swipe a quick, searing kiss against his lips.

“ _Maya_ ,” he gasps, somehow managing to sound insistent through panted breaths. "Is this... Is this okay?"

"Huh?" she says, intelligently, still struggling with the damp leather. Why is this so difficult? Why are his hands so big?

"Can we do this? I mean... I know what your job means to you. I don't wanna make things difficult for you."

She tosses the wretched glove aside, holds his cool, bare hand between hers, and meets his eye. “I...” His expression is distracting, hopeful and yearning and _gorgeous_ , and her train of thought flies right out the window, lost to the rain. She takes a moment to rally herself, starts again, "Yes. No. I-it's fine. There's some...forms I have to fill out, Fraternization something something... Never needed it before, but first time for everything. You might have to talk to Domiviic, though. About... _us._ "

"I want to," he says, eagerly. "They're important to you, yeah? I wanna meet 'em. I mean, I dunno what I’d say, but if that’s what it takes to make this work..."

She stares down at him—at the man she is, apparently, head over heels for, and who is, evidently, willing to endure a meeting with her boss if it means they can sleep together—and asks, "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop talking."

He nods, sliding his hand free from hers so he can curl it around the back of her neck and draw her mouth down to his again. "Okay."

She got the feeling he hadn’t done much kissing before, but he is...well, a _real_ quick study. The kiss leaves her breathless and aching, and the feeling of his hands on her—squeezing the back of her neck, twisting into her hair, caressing her thighs and hooking into the bands of her stockings to tug them down to her knees and free up more skin to be touched—is even more decadent than she’d imagined. She wants to see and feel so much more of him, and she leans back to grab fistfuls of his sweater and pull.

It takes some doing, but Peter is ever so obliging, and soon enough she’s stripped him of his turtleneck and undershirt, staring in awe at all that impossibly pale skin, tracing her fingers along the planes and curves of lean, solid muscle.

She doesn’t always get to see his face when she visits, but she’s seen it enough to have gotten used to the scars there—the starburst by his temple, the crescent on his cheekbone, the jagged line that splits his eyebrow, the one that makes all his smiles a little crooked. But there are more here, up his arms and across his collar and down his chest, and she smooths her palms along his warm, soft skin interrupted with rough lines of pearly scar tissue. She wants to kiss every one, to map him out, to dedicate her time to the study of his body until her hands know the location of each scar by instinct.

“You’re...a little overdressed,” he says with a grunt, and Maya blinks and lifts her gaze back to his face, finds him smirking at her. One of his hands is tracing patterns along her inner thigh, not traveling as high as she’d like it to be but the movement is, quite literally, tantalizing; the other is plucking at the tie of her dress, and he angles his head to knock his forehead softly against hers, a chaste gesture that feels particularly wicked with all the things she wants to do to him. “Can I, uh..?”

“ _Please_ ,” she gasps, leaning back; his fingers hook in the strip of fabric, letting her movement pull the knot free. Fashion and decency and the capability of laundry technology in this era would dictate that she wear a slip underneath, but she’s beyond grateful to have skipped it. The way he unwraps her, pulling the fabric aside so gently and with a look of something akin to reverence on his face, she thinks she might get this dress framed—maybe donate it to a museum for display, so long as they’ll agree to let her borrow it out sometimes for special occasions.

He’s seen her in her underwear before, but she’d been bleeding out from a gunshot wound and neither of them had had much chance to really appreciate the experience. It’s like he’s trying to _savor_ this, fingertips ghosting along every inch of skin that’s revealed.

She’s had lovers before—admittedly not many, and not for quite some time, now, not since...Nairobi, maybe? Had it really been _that_ long? But none of them ever touched her like this, ever looked at her like she was something sacred. It feels...well, _exhilarating_ , if she’s honest, but it isn’t want she needs right now.

“Peter.” She cords her fingers through his hair—she _loves_ his hair, a little longer than is fashionable here, and so dark that her hand seems to disappear into it—and pulls him close enough to press her forehead against his again and linger there. She tries to think of what to say to get her point across, but her thoughts are more than a little sluggish right now, and keep circling back to how great his eyes look, all hot and dark with desire and focused on her, and how good his panted breaths feel against her skin, so the best she can manage is, “I want you _bad_.”

“... _Oh_ ,” he says softly, as if the thought hadn’t really occurred to him, and it would’ve made her laugh if his lips hadn’t been on hers the next instant, his fingers pressing into her skin with purpose. One hand smooths up along her belly and ribcage, palming her breast through the fabric of her bandeau. Her breath hitches, so strongly she has to break the kiss and toss her head back, gasping for air.

He isn’t deterred, though, just kisses his way along her jaw and down her neck instead, and Maya gasps some more and shakes her arms behind her, letting the dress fall free to the floor. She bites her lip, and presses her hands into the scant space between them, searching for his belt.

She knows she doesn’t have much to brag about in the chest department, has come to terms with that long ago, but Peter seems more than satisfied with the way his hand covers her breast, if the rocking of his hips is anything to go by. His fingers dip beneath her bra, rolling her nipple between them, and she’s so distracted by the delicious sensation she doesn’t even notice what his other hand is doing until he squeezes one cheek of her ass, _hard_ , making her squeak and arch her back and thrust her hips closer to his and finally, _finally_ , she feels the insistent press of his arousal, hot and hard against her leg.

She can feel the low rumble in his chest more than she can actually hear the moan, and before she can even whine about his hand slipping free from her bra, he’s got that arm around her back and is lurching to his feet.

Sometimes she manages to forget just how strong he is, but he plucks her up and stalks across the room with so little effort and without any help from her, and it makes her feel light-headed and somehow, some way, even more turned on than before. She wraps her legs around his waist and throws an arm across his shoulders, not because she feels unsafe but just to get as close to him as possible, and she licks her lips and leans in to breathe against his ear, “ _This is cozy_.”

The noise he makes is almost a shout, and he dumps her unceremoniously on his bed, pressing hot, gasping kisses to her mouth before she even gets her bearings. It doesn’t matter, she’s got room now to scrabble at his belt and pull it free and slide her hand beneath his pants and briefs and—

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Is it her cry, or his, or both? It doesn’t matter, she doesn’t care, she just needs those clothes _off him_ , and when he pulls away to fumble with his boots, she squirms out of her bandeau and tosses it as far away as she can get it. Nothing between them but her panties because she wasn’t quite fast enough to strip them, and he’s trying to kiss her and she’s trying to get her hands wrapped around that hot, thick, _heavy_ dick—he lets her for a moment, gasping into her mouth and rutting his hips, sliding silky-soft skin into the cup of her palms, but only for a moment and then he grabs both her wrists in one hand and pulls her away.

“I can’t—” he gasps, in between kisses as he works his way down her neck and chest, stopping once to slide the flat of his tongue along her nipple and hear her whine, then further down. “I won’t— I need—”

He’s kneeling before her, releases her wrists so he can use both hands to tug her close, far enough that her ass hangs off the edge of the bed and she has to prop herself up on her elbows so she can see what he’s up to. He pulls her panties down to her ankles, doesn’t even bother letting her step out of them before he’s pushing her knees open and sliding a finger between her slit, and she drops back to the mattress, already feeling overwhelmed by just this first touch.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he says, his voice a low rasp—he doesn’t curse often, and the sound of it now makes her tremble all over. “You’re _so wet, Maya_.”

“Peter, _please_ ,” she gasps, not even knowing what she’s begging for, only that she needs it. She kicks the panties away just in time to feel him lifting her leg over his shoulder, petting her other thigh so softly.

“I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he murmurs gently, a tone of voice she’s never heard from him before and it makes her heart _ache_. Has she ever wanted _anything_ as much as she wants him right now? His touch is so light, so careful, his breath cooling against her wetness. “Wanna taste you. ‘S that okay?”

Her whole body thrums at the thought, and she squirms and tries to answer but her mind can’t seem to decide on “ _y_ _es_ ” or “ _pl_ _ease_ ” or “ _fu_ _ck_ ” and she’s not sure she actually says any of it, but he seems to get the message.

He spreads her open, leads with his tongue, and she fucking melts into the mattress.

The touch of his lips and tongue and fingertips are light and careful, sweet and a bit hesitant, trying a little bit of everything to find what she likes, but it all feels _so good_ she has no idea what sort of determinations he might be making. She hooks her leg across his shoulder and tries to pull him closer, desperate for just a little more, and she can _feel_ him laughing and the sensation of such a rarity as his laughter against her most sensitive flesh is so good she might dissolve, right here in his bed.

One of his long fingers slips into her easily, and she clenches down on it, rocking her hips and making soft, encouraging noises, doing her best to request more with her mind blanking on every word in every language she’s ever learned. He seems to understand, and a second finger joins it, and if it weren’t for the feel of his head between her thighs and the mattress beneath her, anchoring her to this world, she might be floating through the void. She presses a hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut and biting back a high, desperate moan.

Something cool and tensile wraps around her wrist, tugging her hand away. When she gasps and looks down, Peter's smirking at her, his free hand pulling the other end of the web that's ensnared her. His eyes are dark and heated, his voice low and lilting as he says, "I wanna _hear_ ya, doll."

He lowers that mouth of his back to her heat, and Maya tosses her head back and cries, " _Peter!_ " so loud the neighbors are bound to hear her. She can _feel_ it when his lips curl into a grin.

She'll give him what he wants, give him a _show_ , give him anything he asks for so long as it means he'll keep touching her.

And keep touching he does, always moving, threading pleasure through her core and up her spine and out to the end of every nerve she has. The orgasm comes in a rush, crests in a way that makes every cell in her body contract around the feeling of his fingers and tongue in and on her. She tries to call his name again, barely utters a syllable before her lungs constrict, and sometime later comes back to herself enough to find she's gasping and breathless and loose-limbed on the bed, feeling wrung out as Peter climbs up beside her, leaving a trail of devastatingly tender kisses in his wake.

She's just able to blink away tears as he draws close enough for her to grab, to pull him in for a desperate, messy kiss, still tasting herself on his tongue.

"Just...gimme a sec," she gasps, as he cradles her head between his hands, thumbs stroking along her cheekbones as he stares down at her in something approaching wonder at a dangerous rate.

Her favorite scar tugs at his lips as they quirk upward, and his gray eyes look nearly black by now but still gleam with amusement at her eagerness. "There's no rush," he tells her, voice soft and reassuring.

"Yeah, there is," she corrects, leveraging herself up on her elbow, dragging an eager hand down his chest to slide against his length. "I want you _so bad_."

"...Oh," he grunts—then, " _oh_ ," again, a little more roughly as his breath catches and his hips cant, eagerly sliding more of his velvety prick against her palm, hot and throbbing. "I—" he starts, voice faltering as she curls her fingers around him.

She watches with hunger and delight at his bobbing Adam's apple, as he swallows and tries to match his breathing to the stroking of her hand. The color contrast between her skin and his is especially striking like this, and for a moment he just stares down at her hand, seeming entranced.

"You've...already got me, Maya." His voice is a sigh, his eyes heavy-lidded as he lifts his gaze to hers. "Been yours from the moment I saw your face."

She bites her lip to stifle a cry and all but throws herself at him, kissing his mouth, his jaw, his neck, anything she can reach as she climbs into his lap again and rocks against his length. He groans and sighs, hands clinging to her, pulling her close; but, even as desperate as he sounds, when she lifts up on her knees and takes him in her hand, he touches her wrist and presses his forehead to hers and asks, soft and breathless, “Are you sure?”

She doesn’t believe in destiny. But sometimes you get offered the chance to decide what you’d like the future to be.

“Yes,” she sighs, and sinks down onto him.

Even as wet and eager as she is, it takes some time; it's been a while, and he's so thick, and the stretch is...significant. _He's gonna ruin me_ , she thinks.

Hearing the little, whining moan he makes when he's finally, fully inside her, she knows it's gonna be worth it.

She thinks she's known it all along.

He leans in, laving her neck with wet, panting, open-mouthed kisses while she takes a moment to get used to the feel of him. At the first, sweet roll of her hips, his teeth press into her skin in just the right way.

" _Peter_."

His breath is hot against her skin, and his hands grip her ass tight enough to make her squirm, and the sensation leaves them both shuddering. “You’re killin’ me, doll,” he gasps, and she’s never heard him sound this _wrecked_ before, and she does take pity on him but she also jots a mental note to make sure she finds a way to make him sound like that again, and soon.

She rests her forearms on his shoulders for leverage, curls her fingers into the soft hair at the back of his neck for pleasure, and starts off slow—still getting used to the size of him, finding what angle works best for them both, though, admittedly, it’s all pretty spectacular. She knows she can get pretty vocal in bed, but she’s in no way prepared for the sounds he makes and how often he makes them, his rough gasps and low groans when she clenches around him, and “ _yes_ ” and “ _oh_ ” and “ _Maya_ ” as they set a sweet rhythm that has him thrusting his hips up to meet her on every downstroke.

She leans back, bracing herself with her hands on the bed behind her, and the new angle leaves her trembling, body taut, calling his name like a ritual.

But she can’t keep that up for long—she’s in decent shape, but not for _this_ , and even with his strong hands helping, she’s starting to tremble in a way that’s decidedly not sexy anymore. " _Peter_ —" she gasps. "I need— I need to—"

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, nodding, knowing what she’s asking even if she can’t quite manage to ask it. He wraps his arms around her and picks her right up, turns and tucks her under him, cradling her head with one big hand as he lays her back on the bed, all the while still buried inside her. She shifts against the pillow, hooks a leg around his waist, and begs him to fuck her.

 _Void_ , does he. The pace he sets is faster than she ever could've managed, leaves her feeling dizzy and breathless and desperate in the best way. She's nothing more than a jumble of pleasure and want beneath him, and when he leans in and presses his face into the crook of her neck and gasps, " _I'm yours, I'm yours,_ " all she can do is grab the hand that isn't gripping her hip and hold onto him.

He shudders, and weaves his fingers through hers.

She was already close, but this is more than she can bear. "Peter," she pants, " _please_."

He lifts his head, shifts his weight, slides the hand on her hip around her thigh so he can brush his thumb against her clit and watch her come undone.

It washes over her, a cascade of sensation that she feels in every fiber of her being. She's calling something, doesn't know what she says—hopes it's his name, but imagines it's probably nonsense. His hand still grips hers, and he still moves inside her, riding her through it; it feels like an eternity before the sharpest of the pleasure ebbs away to a softer delight, and when it does and he pulls out, she can't help but whimper at the sudden ache of loss.

But he's still there, still kneeling over her, one hand still holding hers tight while the other curls around his length. She reaches her free hand to join it, relishing in the feel of her own wetness on his heated skin, and he gasps and lifts his eyes to hers, so dark, so beautiful.

She recognizes her name for what it is, a prayer that falls from his breathless lips as he comes all over her belly and chest, " _Maya_."

 _Ruined_ , she thinks, as she draws him down, too wrung out to kiss him properly but content, for now, to just hold him against her and feel his weight pressing her into the thin mattress. She runs the fingers of her free hand through his hair; he strokes his down her cheek. Their other hands are still clasped tight together, and she has no intention of releasing him any time soon.

"I'm yours," she tells him, and feels him shudder against her.

They lay like that for a long time. The wind howls outside the windows, rain pelting against the glass, but inside they’re warm and safe.

Maya’s starting to doze off when Peter moves, pushing up to his knees and then off of her entirely. She grips his hand tight with an annoyed whine, turns her face to pout at him in the hope that it’ll convince him back into bed.

But it just makes him laugh, and he bends down to kiss her gently. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where you goin’?”

"I, uh... Gonna grab a towel," he says, sounding sheepish and abashed and _adorable_. He gives her hand a squeeze, and his voice is barely more than a whisper as he asks, "Stay here, okay? Please, don't... Don't disappear."

It might be the first time in her life that she can say so with any honesty, but she meets his gray eyes and tells him, "There's nowhere I'd rather be."

He kisses her again, hot and lingering—then once more for good measure—before releasing her hand and heading for the bathroom. She watches him go, grateful to see that he’s no longer limping, mostly just admiring the view. It’s _absurd_ how hot he is, the way his long, lean body moves with such power and grace, and if she wasn’t so flushed and exhausted and covered in his cum, she would scarcely believe this had been real, that he actually wants _her_.

She doesn’t believe in destiny. But something about tonight makes her think she might be wrong about that.

He returns to her side with a hand towel and another mug, this time full of water instead of rotgut. She giggles as he wipes her clean, ticklish and sensitive, and it sets him off laughing in a sweet, soft way she doesn't think she's ever heard him laugh before, and she wonders how she's ever going to leave this bed and his side, come morning.

When Peter finally settles in the bed again, sitting up with his back against the headboard, Maya scooches in between his legs and leans against his chest, his heartbeat thrumming against her cheek. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and they just sit quietly together, holding each other and sharing the cup of water and listening to the sound of the rain.


End file.
